


The Hitchhiker's Guide to Illegal Activity

by YouNeedAUsername222



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: A road trip of sorts, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, BAMF Carl Grimes, BAMF Negan, Bisexual Carl Grimes, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuteness in the later chapters, Dom/sub, Eventual Smut, Hand Jobs, Just plain sexual Negan, Kissing, M/M, Murder, Really toeing the line with this daddy kink here guys, They are both insane, Underage Drinking, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29611179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouNeedAUsername222/pseuds/YouNeedAUsername222
Summary: Carl Grimes, a student whose college trip is cut short, finds himself stranded four hundred miles from home. He hitchhikes with a friendly stranger, who turns out to have ulterior motives beyond his wildest dreams. Will he tag along on Negan's quest for vengeance, or will he buckle under the pressure?
Relationships: Carl Grimes & Negan, Carl Grimes/Negan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	1. Literally just world building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of an info dump so brace your lovely selves, let me know what you think!

Carl has been standing at the side of this stupid road with his thumb jabbed out - in the hopes that he’ll get a lift from a friendly driver who doesn't want to wear his skin - for nearing forty minutes now. It's going to be dark in a few hours and he honestly might have to climb a tree and make a nest for the night. The walk from his current location to the nearest town isn't an attractive one and there are no buses for miles, just a beautiful yet obstructive expanse of impractical woodland and mountains. Great to look at, terrible to be surrounded by. 

He's on a highway in the middle of Nowhere between two Very Busy Somewheres, so it has plenty of traffic but no one willing to stop for a one-eyed teenager. His injury drives people away (literally, in this case). The accident, though not recent, causes him trouble every day, from people hinting at him to remove the bandage, to children screaming and hiding behind their parents from the evil cyclops with scarring on his face. Carl wishes there weren't so many one-eyed villains in book and movies, it does his image no favors. 

The scratches he obtained from trudging through the woods are stinging and he’s pretty sure there was a squirrel living in his hat for a couple of miles back there. At least _someone’s_ having luck getting a ride. 

A black Ford SUV approaches and he's hopeful that it'll stop and end his thumb’s pain, but it hurtles past instead. The taillights race away into the growing darkness. He watches, drawn to the vehicle somehow. Eight minutes later, the same SUV cruises back in the opposite direction. At least, Carl thinks it’s the same one. Cars all look identical after a while – wheels, painted metal, people who are obviously too good to stop for a hitchhiker, and lights. Endless lights. Carl’s pretty sure that if a speedboat came tearing up the road, rudders destroying the asphalt, he would mistake it for another Camry. 

A further five minutes pass and just as Carl is nearing his wit’s end, a – possibly the – black Ford slows and pulls up beside him, headlights blinding his good eye. He walks to the side, hoping to make a good ‘ _I’m no trouble, I promise_ ’ impression. 

“Where you headin’, kid?” A man asks from the driver’s seat. Carl can’t see properly on account of the headlight glare but takes note of a deep voice, confident too. 

“I’m trying to get back to King County, anywhere in the Georgia direction is good, that alright?”

“You bet, hop in.” 

Carl exhales a wispy breath of relief as he gladly accepts the invite. The gentle rev of the car while they speed off is a welcome sound. 

“Thanks so much, man, I was starting to think I’d never hear an engine from _inside_ a car again.” 

“Don’t mention it, cowboy, drivers are dickheads. You out there a while?” 

Backpack by his feet, Carl places his hat on the dashboard and breathes in the scent of coffee and lingering cigarette smoke. It’s pleasant and reminds him that his chances of being attacked by a bear drastically dropped within the last fifty seconds. “Like a year…” 

A scoff, “I can only imagine there’s a pinch of exaggeration in there somewhere …” 

“Ok, maybe a little. But it was at least an hour!” 

“I don’t envy you, kid. These roads get fuckin’ spooky at night. You don’t want to be out here after dark…” The man tells him as the rockface to their right steepens. “Georgia, huh? You’re a while from home, what brings you out here?” 

Carl glances at his savior then, his eye having fully recovered from the assault of his lights. He’s tall, somewhere in his late forties with dark hair and a salt and pepper beard. With reserved observation, Carl notes that he’s attractive. He’s wearing a thin blue sweatshirt with rolled up sleeves and Carl really shouldn’t be staring at his tanned hands but that’s exactly what’s happening, “my friends were with me until about,” he glances at the absence of a watch on his wrist, “two hours ago. Then one of them got a call about a family emergency and they had to bounce.” 

Ron hadn’t explained the nature of the emergency but it seemed pretty urgent, so Carl had told him and Enid to take the car. He’s independent; he can find his own way home, even if it’s four hundred miles away. His friends had fussed a bit before gratefully scarpering and leaving him in Literal Nowhere, Kentucky. He knows he’s near Lexington, which helps. At least from there he can play Musical Chairs – Musical Passenger Seats doesn’t have the same ring to it – in the direction of his destination until he finds a bus station. He’s glad that this first driver is talkative. Silence sucks and it always turns awkward. 

“So you were all just, you know, hanging out in the woods, waiting to get stabbed? Following old guys with long grey beards into mysterious caves?” The man asks, rightfully dubious of the situation. 

“No, we were hanging out in an abandoned _hospital_ , waiting to get stabbed. Big difference. Long story short, we’ve been travelling around old derelict buildings, taking photos and making sketches, all that fun stuff.” The college (Media and Photography department) is paying for travel costs and Carl will be reimbursed even though they only managed four days out of six. “The plan was to head home on Sunday but obviously,” he shrugs, “it’ll be a bit earlier. What about you? Doing anything interesting?”

The driver looks conflicted for a second before making his mind up, “not really, just heading down South to pick up the keys to my new place. The weather where I live is fuckin’ abysmal. If there is a God, he treats my neighborhood like it picked on him in high school.” 

They make small talk for a good half an hour as the lights get brighter and more frequent. It dawns on Carl that he doesn’t know the driver’s name and at this point it seems too late to ask. He’s one hell of a talker – witty, too – and Carl feels that he could easily write an essay on him by now. He’s a gym teacher and will soon be moving to the same position in a different school. He’s what you might call a bad boy; an older, tattooed motorcyclist with an affinity for throwing knives. This, though Carl isn’t in a hurry to confess it, is exactly his type. He doesn’t even know the guy’s name. 

“So, what’s with your whole mysterious eye bandage thing? You get laser surgery or somethin’?” 

Carl braces himself, “I was wondering when you were going to mention it. Most people can’t get three words out without saying something 'well-meaning' and ‘tolerant’" he scorns, though he knows it's not their fault. It's just taking him a while to realise that it's not his own fault either, "it was something that happened when I was in high school, it wasn't great. Uh, yeah." 

"Don't leave a guy high and dry like that, kid! What happened?" 

He's not stepping on eggshells; Carl respects that. He also seems like the kind of guy who appreciates theatrics, so Carl spares no detail. The guy wants a story, he’ll get one. 

“Some fucker with a gun happened, a loaded military grade MP-10. It was four years ago, I was fourteen. He walked past the receptionist like he owned the place. Just waltzed right in – it’s that fucking easy to shoot up a school. Class had finished for lunch and I was in the hallway, just like any other day. As soon as the shooting started, I pushed the friends I was with into a classroom but didn’t manage to get there myself.” _There was screaming and clattering as things were dropped and people started running but it was all drowned out by the deafening rifle ripping its way through a crowd of students._ Nothing had ever made Carl wake up yelling like that memory did. “He shot me right in the eye without even aiming. Wish I could have returned the favor. He injured nine other students but no one died. Apparently, police took him down after a teacher threw a fire extinguisher at his face.” 

"Classic. You know his name?” The guy seems invested in Carl’s story. He likes the attention. At first, he’d been worn out by nosy people asking about his eye injury, only to lose interest when it didn’t suit them anymore. None of them cared about him. Once the initial excitement and the last of the hospital trips had died down, he was left to deal with it by himself, which was even more lonely. He remembers the headaches he’d get as his left eye trained itself to do the heavy lifting, and how his teachers tiptoed and whispered their way around the issue. The other kids were far less kind but at least they didn’t deny the existence of the wound and the struggles it bore. It’s nice to talk to this random guy he met forty-five minutes ago. He seems to respect Carl enough to not coddle him, even if he’s got a funny way of showing it. “Ever think about gettin' revenge?"

“All the time… his name was Philip Blake; he was a cult leader who lived on a plot of land fifty miles away from the school. People had been going missing in that area for years. After the shooting, he confessed to coercing, what was it? Twenty-seven people? Into poisoning themselves – the police briefed me on everything when they needed my statement – and his land, where they were all found in various stages of decomposition, became known as the Bermuda Trapezium-”

“Seriously?” The man laughs, which is fair enough. 

“Hey, I didn’t choose the name,” Carl shrugs with a small smile, “I would have gone with Fuckstick’s Lair or Poor-Quality Street. He killed himself seven months into his prison sentence.”

“No shit… he does the old spray and pray in a school and checks out early? Such an unprovoked crime like that; people need to take responsibility for their goddamn actions…” 

“Yeah, it fucking sucks. Drank a bunch of nasty stuff with his cellmate and six others,” they’d sampled a cocktail of cleaning chemicals which had burned them from the inside out. People do crazy things when confronted with Philip Blake. “Bet it wasn’t the prettiest death, I'm glad he went out hurting." 

An introspective nod. "That's equal parts morbid and, if I think about it, totally just. How do you know all this? Doesn’t seem like info they’d be too enthusiastic to share with the public." 

"My dad's a cop so I can get all the juicy insider details I want." _With or without his knowledge_ , he doesn't add. "He was the first officer on the scene. You want to know the craziest part?" 

Maybe it's Carl's imagination, but did the man tense a little when he learned that Rick is a cop? Or it could be because they passed a railway crossing – a far cry from the country roads and highways they’ve driven along so far. Maybe Carl should pay attention to which turns they’re taking or maybe he’s seen one too many kidnapping documentaries. 

“You mean Darwin’s tea party ain’t the craziest part?” The man scoffs. 

“Not even close, dude. I shit you not, his right eye was missing too. He wore an eye patch like some kind of psycho pirate. It looked pretty dumb.” From what Carl saw before his vision turned bloody and black, Philip looked like a villain who’d jumped straight from a comic. 

“That’s why you chose a bandage, right?” Carl makes an affirmative noise, and the driver exhales loudly and theatrically. "Ouch." 

“You don’t say…” 

A couple of minutes pass where neither of them speak. Carl peers out of the window, fogging the surface near his nose. It’s dark and cold outside and he’s grateful to be in the kind stranger’s car. 

“I’m Negan,” the man says as if suddenly remembering that names are a thing and he should probably offer one. Negan. It’s a strange name, not one that Carl would think of, but oddly fitting. 

“Carl.”

“Grimes…”

That’s when Carl’s blood goes cold. How does this randomer know his surname? His hands, which have been in his lap for most of the trip, coil together tightly. They’re already clammy and his mind is racing faster than the SUV. He wonders how locked the doors are, tensing up somewhat under his hoodie. The man – Negan – doesn’t seem to share his unease, just glances sideways at him for a second. 

“Relax, kid. I rolled your story around in the ol’ brainbox for a second and I just placed why it’s so familiar – you were on the news, weren’t you? Carl Grimes, the total badass who survived a gunshot wound to the goddamn face, of course you were on the news.” 

“Yeah, yeah I was. It was a whole thing,” Carl sags in his seat. “Holy shit, I thought you… I don’t even know…”

“Sorry for givin’ you a fright,” neither Negan nor the huge grin plastered across his face look even the least bit sorry.


	2. Motel MoProblems

Negan – Carl has found himself using the name at every given opportunity since it entered his vocabulary – explains that he’s planning to stay somewhere for the night, “there’s a motel after the next junction. I can either drop you off at the side of the road so you can hitch another ride, or you can stay with me. We’ll grab forty winks and I’ll take you the rest of the way in the morning. We’re headin’ to the same place so might as well rideshare.” He looks at Carl for a second, “and if you’re a little serial killer angling to slit me and take my car, I’ll just have to smile nicely at my chances…” 

It takes a couple of minutes to sort the details of their arrangement as they trundle up the road. Carl suggests that they take shifts driving tomorrow. He somehow forgets to mention that the last time he was behind the wheel, it had wondered off the road and ended up uncomfortably close to a ditch. No one was hurt but it caused some serious upset for a crowd of pigeons. The time before that, the bumper of his dad’s Crown Vic had made fast and furious friends with a lamppost in the city. The ‘fast’ referred to the collision and the ‘furious’ originated from Rick’s reaction. Alas, by some miracle (or tragedy if you ask the pigeons), he retained his license, and he’ll dig it out of his backpack tomorrow. 

The lazy pattering of rain on the roof soundtracks their discussion all the way to the turnoff. Carl feels so awkwardly indebted to Negan that he’s almost embarrassed. This stranger is letting him tag along for three hundred or so miles with little in the way of compensation. But, he tells himself, it’s what any decent person would do, and Negan doesn’t exactly have to worry about a scrawny teenager trying anything silly. 

The only issue is, what if Negan is the sinister one? He seems normal enough – if a bit lively and inappropriate - but most psychopaths do. Maybe his modus operandi is to help unsuspecting folk with no method of transport and gut them in motel bathrooms. Perhaps Carl is overthinking this just a tad. Though the Ford _did_ make a fifteen-minute detour for him (again, all cars look the same but he assumes this is what happened) which could be a red flag? But those vibes aren’t jumping out, and it doesn’t appear likely that Negan will try to attack him during the night. Carl has to watch out for things like this. He seems to have a strange effect on older guys, the only difference is that he likes this one. 

Any uneasiness quickly dissipates as a neon sign reading _Motel Moproblems_ comes into view. The _‘ob’_ has been graffitied into a dick and clearly a few centuries have passed since its last window cleaning but it’s a welcome sight regardless. It’s then that Carl realizes how tired he is. Hiking for an hour through dense forestry to reach the road had taken it out of him. 

They try to get two rooms for the night – again, the college are footing the travel bill for Carl, as long as he keeps the receipt – but there’s only one available. It’s the one right at the end of the block and Carl moves first along the narrow sidewalk after procuring the key and a couple of sandwiches, passing several identical blue doors. Roadside hotels have earned themselves a bad reputation in movies and he ponders what could possibly be going on behind said doors. Perhaps there’s someone with sensitive government secrets hiding from the FBI, or a couple of Bonnie and Clydes planning their next heist. Or maybe just a bunch of tired individuals hoping to get a decent night’s sleep before making the last leg of their perfectly normal road trip. That’s the option he’d bet on. 

In their room, 12B, there’s a bathroom, two single beds, an armchair, and not much else. It’s dark and modest and the curtains are broken. Not ripped or torn like you’d expect worn material to be - broken. What does it matter anyway? They’re on the second floor and you’d have to be fifteen feet tall to get a glimpse of their ankles from the outside. 

Upon entering, Carl flops down face-first onto one of the beds. It’s soft and he’s tempted to just fall asleep right then and there with his backpack and everything still on. He feels his hat lift off, and looks up, resting his head on crossed elbows. Negan is examining it, “why do you wear a cowboy hat?” 

A shrug as Carl sits up to undo his walking boots. “It’s a sheriff’s hat, and because I like it. It’s my dad’s, I really only wear it when I’m away from home.” 

“Huh,” Negan hums, placing it back on Carl’s head so the brim falls over his eye, “cute.”

It’s almost midnight and Carl is in bed reading a comic. Negan is a few feet away, comparably inclined with some emails. There’s only one problem. 

"Harder! Harder! Yes yes yes!" The cries from the room next door carry loudly, paired with the rhythmic thud of a bed against the drywall, chipping away at it. Well that’s awkward. Given the type of establishment this is, it hardly surprises Carl, and he and Negan share a glance at the abrupt rise in volume. 

An eyebrow raise from the older man, "loud fuckers, aren’t they? Literally. Probably some prostitute trying to get a tip." 

"Maybe a bit more than just a tip by the sounds of it. I’m sure she could start her own bank by now...” Carl remarks, somewhat more awkwardly. If the floor is planning to open up and swallow him whole, now would be a great time to do so, “how do we shut them up?" 

There’s a pause in which Negan glances at the wall, then back to his younger companion. A mischievous grin creeps onto his face. "Give 'em a taste of their own noisy-as-shit medicine.” 

Carl catches on instantly, his own face breaking out into a similar expression. He kneels up on his bed to get close, hammering a fist on the wall, and gives his best impression of the woman next door. It’s quiet at first. A sighing, mewling sound that relies more on his exhale than his actual voice. He soon rises in volume to level with the woman. To his right, Negan’s pushing his headboard against the wall with a _thump, thump, thump_ to combat the adjacent room. He projects, “yeah, you like that you little bitch?” Carl moans louder, trying not to burst into laughter when his voice breaks, and if a “yes daddy!” slips out, it only adds to the hilarity. 

He’s pressing his face right up to the wall to give their boisterous neighbors an earful. Surely they’ve received the message loud and oh-so-clear by now? Negan’s watching him curiously, a smirk on his lips as he keeps on bashing the headboard. It’s probably going to break soon; at least then it’ll match everything else in the room. 

A mere thirty seconds is all it takes for the lady next door to hush down, and Carl falls backwards on the bed, cackling into the back of his hand. Negan is doing his damnedest to contain his own amusement a few feet away. 

“Goddamn… you’re a decent actor, kid, you really are,” a devilish grin, "next time we should go method." He winks suggestively, which earns a nervous laugh and the cutest blush he’s ever laid eyes on.


	3. Best of both worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about to go doooooown...

The sun trudges across America to signal the dawn of a new Friday. Negan and Carl take turns in the shower and grab a quick breakfast. Carl briefly lingers on the idea of suggesting they find an IHOP but fears that might be pushing his luck. 

It’s hot out, somewhere around the eighty-degree mark. Carl opts for jeans, a grey t-shirt, and a flannel shirt over the top. He hadn’t packed a lot for the photography trip but it would do. 

Negan is rather less subtle, sporting a red scarf despite the heat, blue jeans, and his big black boots from yesterday. The thing that stands out most is the leather jacket on his enviable frame. It’s a jet-black affair that hugs his tattooed biceps. He must be hot – in every type of way – and Carl finds himself staring. He looks like something a child would dream up as their perfect supervillain. He looks like something Carl would dream up. 

Confident that none of their belongings had been left behind, they head downstairs to hand over the room key. At the desk, there’s a small queue of impatient motorists waiting to do the same, and they join the end. 

“This place gets a lot of traffic for the location,” Carl muses. He’s still wiping sleep from his eye and stifling yawns every thirty seconds. It hadn’t been the best sleep of his life. 

“I’d bet my left nut that this is a front for somethin’ spooky, if you know what I mean.” 

Just as Negan is about to say something else, a woman in a short dress coughs daintily as she walks in, holding her high heeled shoes in one hand and a purse in the other. She stands behind Carl and Negan in line, taking a sheepish peek at them. Carl recognizes her as the noisy lady from the room neighboring theirs. It takes less than a second for her expression to take on a mood of disgust when the penny drops and she evidently thinks about what _she_ heard through the wallpaper last night. 

“Your kind ain’t welcome around these parts. Two guys… it ain’t pure,” she hisses quietly as if ashamed of her own opinions. Good, Carl thinks, she should be. 

Negan’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead as he turns slowly around and Carl, not knowing much about him, wonders how he’ll react. 

“Lady, you can dismount your braying, bucking, ill-informed high horse right the fuck now, because last time I checked, that’s _so_ far from your business that it's in a different country. It's on a different _planet_ from your business. Like, it’ll take seventeen stamps and a note from fucking Superman to send your shitty, backwards complaints.” He’s leaning back, a nice posture for condescension. 

The lady is frowning and crossing her arms now, having put her high heels on. “Jesus _died_ for your sins, h-”

“You know what? I’m not even mad about it. At least _someone_ in that family was getting nailed, am I right? Poor Mary didn’t even get to do the fun part.” Negan ordinarily wouldn’t make fun of someone’s religion – or at least that’s what Carl’s intuition is telling him – but in this situation, it feels necessary. Or at least justified. “Tell me, honey, were we getting it on in that room with you? No, if anything, you thrust that in _our_ faces, so feel oh-so-free to fuck all the way off.” 

The lady, deciding she’s bitten off far more than she can possibly hope to chew in this lifetime, huffs but says nothing. She’s still glaring at the two, then flitting her gaze behind them at the excruciatingly slow-decreasing line of people, possibly willing it to move along. 

“Yeah, what makes you so interested, anyway?” Carl asks. “Are you curious or something? Feel like you’re missing out? Or are you upset that people are different than you? Just saying, I get the best of both worlds and I’m perfectly happy.” 

Negan and Carl hadn’t so much as held hands last night but they’re – rightfully – explaining to the woman that gay relationships are just as natural as the straight kind like they’ve been married for thirty years. Which, for obvious reasons, is not the case. 

The queue moves up and the two share a look before turning back around. Negan hands over the key and puts a casual arm around Carl’s shoulders as they walk out. Carl can’t see his middle finger standing to attention at the unpleasant lady behind them. He’s too busy having his own private heartbeat elevation party. Blood is flowing to his face at the feeling of the older man so close beside him, arm slung around him. They’re out of eyeshot now but Negan doesn’t let him go until they get to the car. 

“What a bitch…” Carl mentions on pulling out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He’s got the first shift driving and takes it slow to get acquainted with the car. Adjusting the seat settings to account for his smaller stature is somewhat embarrassing. 

“Some fuckin’ people.” Negan nods his agreement. “That was pretty damn funny last night though.” 

“She definitely bought it,” a shy snigger accompanies Carl’s words. 

“Kid, _I_ almost bought it. Those noises were straight up pornographic.” Negan laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Best of both worlds, huh? You’re bi?” 

He’s about to come out to a guy he’s known for south of twenty-four hours. Negan made his views on homophobia clear in the motel so Carl shouldn’t be worrying about it, but he is. Maybe it could help him practice for Rick and Michonne; that’s probably why he’s so nervous. “Yeah.” He nods, “it feels weird admitting that to someone who isn’t a mirror, but yes. Uh, what about you?” 

Negan shrugs largely in Carl’s peripheral. “I bat for whichever team wants me.” Carl can’t imagine anyone _not_ wanting him. It’s not a crush exactly – at least not yet – but Negan simply isn’t like anyone Carl has ever met before. He’s bold and funny, caring in his own way, with a presence that’s pretty hard to miss and a fashion sense to kill. He’s also treated Carl like a fellow adult for the entire time they’ve been together. If Carl were to be locked in an escape room with someone, he’d pick Negan; a complete stranger he met yesterday, who’s letting him drive his car. Which, though the man doesn’t know it, is brave as fuck. “How’d you find out? If you don’t mind me prying.” 

It’s not the easiest question to answer, you know, because of the crippling awkwardness, “uh… I was messing around with a friend, he and I were playing Halo and, uh, stuff happened and, yeah. We never talked about it again but it kind of made me realise some things about myself, you know?” 

They discuss it for a while, Negan explaining that he never had any doubt, even from a young age. He was always horny in general, rather than picking a specific type. He would pick fights with anyone who had a problem with him and he’d always been able to defend himself and whoever he was with. 

“Then I met my wife Lucille,” Negan goes on to say and Carl has to battle the disappointment from encroaching his features, “well, ex-wife.” Disappointment gone. Shit – replace it with shame. “She left me two years ago for some fucker named Chet. Fucking _Chet_. His parents must have hated him right out of the gate. They live in Atlanta in his huge-ass house.” 

“Didn’t you say you were moving near King County?” Which is a stone’s throw from Atlanta. It also means that Negan will probably live within a thirty-mile radius of Carl’s home, which he won’t complain about. 

“Coincidences, man…” That’s vague. Negan fails to elaborate. 

It’s been an hour of driving and they’ve swapped once, Negan now in the driver’s seat with Carl navigating – praying the GPS doesn’t malfunction in the heat – beside him. The radio is blasting some pop song or other and the windows are rolled down to relieve them of the stifling humidity. 

The cool air helps ease Carl’s mind about Ron’s family emergency. His friend had texted to say it was nothing serious and that he and Enid had returned safely to King County but Carl can’t help but worry. He’s close with the Andersons, even the little annoying one, so a burden on them is a burden on him. At least he’ll get brownie points for hitchhiking back home, even though he got insanely lucky by landing shotgun with a guy with the same destination. 

“Damn, turn this shit _up_ ,” Negan says approvingly, pulling Carl from his thoughts. His hand is over the volume slider. The radio gets louder to the upbeat rhythm of a familiar tune. 

_'That’s what people say, mm-mmm, that’s what people say, mm-mmm.'_

“I go on too many dates, but I can’t make ‘em stay,” to Carl’s surprise, Negan is enthusiastically singing along to Taylor fucking Swift! He knows all the words, every single one! Carl starts giggling beside him. “At least that’s what people say, mm-mmm, that’s what people say, mm-mmm.” 

For all his good qualities, Negan can’t sing for shit. His voice falls an octave below the high notes, and everything else is out of tune to the point of unrecognizability... Then again, Carl can’t really critique, his own singing voice could make a deaf man cover his ears. Still, he joins in, air-drumming as he gets every single line wrong. 

“Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake,” Negan’s belting out the words like he’s performing at the Super Bowl, tapping the wheel and moving his leather-clad shoulders in time to the beat. It’s the most hilarious thing Carl has ever seen and his heart jumps a little when Negan glances at him with a grin. “I shake it off, I shake it off, off, off.” 

Half an hour later, they’re outside a roadside store close to a city. The parking lot is fairly empty, save for some teenagers practicing skate moves in the corner. They look a few years younger than Carl. 

“C’mon,” Negan pats Carl’s arm, “as much as I like you, I can’t leave you alone with my car, kid. Also I might need an extra hand. Or two. I mean, three if you can spare ‘em.” 

Fair enough, Carl thinks. If he had a vehicle, leaving it with someone who’d been a stranger yesterday wouldn’t be at the top of his to-do list. Besides, a cool drink wouldn’t go amiss right now. He grabs his backpack. 

They split up as they enter the store, Carl heading straight for the snacks and soft drinks section. He picks out a can of cherry cola and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups because long car journeys aren’t designed for being healthy. He finds a little toy keyring for $1 and just can’t resist. It’s a plushie cop with a decently accurate hat and gun, the size of his index finger. Four-year-old Judith will assuredly like that, and so will Rick. 

After paying, Carl walks along the massive, windowed side of the store in the direction of the exit. He sees Negan at another checkout, waiting for the rest of his items to be scanned. He’s already balanced a first aid kit – for some reason – on top of some transparent tarp, and has a small table tucked under his arm. 

Carl stops to wait, hovering nearby. Is it hot in here or is it just- yeah, it’s just Negan. Case closed; we can all go home now. He’d left his jacket in the car and Carl can sneak a singular eyeful of tensed bicep wrangled by a white shirt. Said shirt is riding up a bit, showing the man’s belt and the slightest sliver of tanned skin. It’s all Carl can do not to reach out and touch him. 

“See anything you like?” Negan’s words hit him like a freight train of embarrassment and he instantly reddens when the man winks at him. Well, time to go cry. “I’m gonna be a minute, if you want the keys, go fish.” He tilts his head helpfully at his pocket. 

Carl steps close, “you’re trusting me with your car?” He has far too much faith in the teenager. 

“Sure.” He answers with a shrug. Carl reaches his hand into the pocket of Negan’s jeans and takes a few too many seconds in there. This is as close as he’s been – and probably as close as he’s going to get – to Negan, and he relishes it. The keys come out all too quickly. “I’m honestly not too concerned about you doing a disappearing act with my trusty steed. At the pace you drive, I could probably catch up with a light jog.” 

After Carl takes the table off Negan’s hands and leaves him to juggle the rest of his purchases, he guesses that the trunk is the best place for furniture. It opens with a click and he slides the table in. A piece of cloth is displaced by one of the legs and he’s about to put it back when a piece of wood catches his eye. For some reason, he just can’t let it go. 

Feeling as though he’s crossing a line, he scans the parking lot for any sign of his travel companion before uncovering the wood properly. It’s a baseball bat. Carl eyes it suspiciously. A baseball bat in a gym teacher’s car, yeah, that makes sense. It makes all the sense in the world until you learn that it’s _covered in barbed wire_ , which makes it a weapon because it _certainly_ doesn’t look very sporting. Are those bloodstains? Surely that’s not blood. It can’t be. But Carl knows it is. 

Mainly because he’s staring at a pile of guns hidden further beneath the cloth. There’s a shotgun and two pistols – Carl doesn’t know the brand or type, just the outcome of squeezing the trigger – and a stun gun. All that’s missing is a pack of zip ties- oh wait, there they are. Buried under a shovel. Brilliant. 

Shying away a little, Carl blinks at it all blankly for a second. The fond memories of the bullet that rid him of his eye come marching back. There’s a serious amount of potential danger here and his brain is on the verge of piecing it together. 

Footsteps approach beside Carl and he looks up, startled. 

Negan assesses the situation. “Shit…” he breathes out, hand running through his hair, “shit, kid, you weren’t meant to see that. Fucking fuck.” 

“Why do you have all this?” Carl can’t help but ask. His curiosity is a fire, after all, snuffed only by an honest answer, no matter how troubling it is. It overrides any fear his brain considers feeling. 

“Goddammit.” Negan has an expression of genuine regret on his face and his voice is soft. His hand comes up between Carl’s shoulder blades, steering him toward the passenger seat. To his evident surprise, Carl goes willingly. Although he likes his chances of outrunning the – probably dangerous, potentially deadly – man, he has nowhere to go, and the Skate Kidz wouldn’t be much help. 

The things Negan bought, now on the backseat, set off more alarm bells within Carl’s mind. He’d noted the transparent plastic tarp in the store but now it dances to the tune of a much more sinister song. Light bulbs, cigarettes and snacks; sure, fine, whatever. But there’s also a knife in there too. What are the chances that Negan was just shopping for kitchenware? If things go bad, Carl can reach into the back and grab it, maybe put it to the man’s throat to scare him into stopping the car. 

He shouldn’t have to do that. Maybe his decision to stay with Negan and see what happens is a mistake. What the fuck has he gotten himself into? 

“It wasn’t meant to happen like this…” Negan groans as they pull out of the parking lot. “Any chance you spontaneously went blind in your good eye since we spoke in the store?” 

Carl glowers at him but maintains his silence. He wants Negan to explain, and he wants to be able to accept that explanation. This, however, seems unlikely given the nature of the weaponry he found.


	4. Highway to Hell

There are a couple of moments in which both parties gather their thoughts, Carl staring coldly ahead. He’s compartmentalizing everything he’s learned and really, it’s not that bad. Well, it is. This guy is definitely going to kill someone. Possibly multiple someones. But he doesn’t try to call the police because he so desperately wants to believe that this newfound friendship isn’t based on deceit or delusion. 

“I know you’re probably leaping over the rainbow to some pretty murdery conclusions, and cards on the table?” Negan takes a look at the boy for a few moments. It’s not returned. “You’re right.”

“So you _are_ going to kill me?” Carl is determined to prevent that from happening, even if it means threatening the man who’s been so kind to him thus far. God, he _really_ doesn’t want to have to do that. 

“What? No! Hell, is that what you think? Damn, I need to work on my tone. Jesus fucking Christ… No I’m not going to fucking kill you,” he seems so genuinely disgusted by the proposition that Carl instinctively believes him. 

“Ok… then why does your trunk look ready to wage war with Billy the Kid? And then… play baseball?” He asks, simply seeking a straight answer, “and save me the bullshit. I won’t judge.” It’s a blatant lie and they both know it, but that solidarity allows the next part of the conversation to ensue with honesty and transience. 

A sigh. Maybe the SUV speeds up a bit. “I’m on the way to do something unspeakable to that walking piss-bucket. You know, Chet. And also to pick up my new house key – that part wasn’t a lie.” 

“You’re going to murder the guy your wife left you for.” How noble. 

“It’s a smidge more complex than that…” he held his thumb and forefinger up in his approximation of a smidge. “Lucille and that fuckhead started hanging out simply to spite me, conspiring like a couple of chipmunks, and then they must have hit it off because she left me. And, on the same day, just to add injury to insult, he sent a bunch of guys over to fuck my shit up in a _major_ way. Like, _all_ the way up. I like to think I held my own, but goddamn. Three broken ribs and for weeks, I looked like someone had thrown a nectarine down the stairs. They roughed up my damn neighbors too, and knifed a real nice painting. Dickheads.”

This sounds more like the plot of a movie than something that could be real. Normal people can’t just order a group to beat someone up. How would you even contact them? And who is ‘them’ anyway? It makes no sense and apparently Carl’s skepticism shows because Negan continues with a rather lengthy and unnecessary explanation of who Chet is. 

From the barrage of information, Carl gathers that Chet is the leader of an illicit underground organization who sound a lot more like a bunch of supervillains than actual people. Clients hire them to ‘intimidate’ targets. Clients tend to be people with secrets, individuals or collectives who want to silence their grim truths at any cost. Whether the target lives or not depends on their reception of the intimidation. If they keep their mouths shut about whatever information the client wants to keep a lid on, they’re not bothered again. If they don’t, they disappear. Some don’t even get the luxury of a second visit. Chet’s people just kill them outright if their workload is too great one day. His people are virtually untraceable, half of them having given up their identities years before. Again, literal supervillains, backstory and all. They sound more like a cult. They kill and obstruct the path of justice. They stop witnesses from testifying important cases and let despicable people go free. 

This speaks to Carl. Since he was young – heightened by the eye incident – he’s craved to hunt bad people down and end them, and he wants it badly. Not only that, but he’s plagued with the rebellious urge to act out, to break the rules and cause havoc. He wants to wear a clown mask and rob a bank in broad daylight, scream at people to freeze and make the ultimate decision. Their money or their life. He’d take neither, but he would possess the power to do so, and that’s what’s so invigorating about it. 

But he’s smart. Common sense dictates that these actions have severe consequences. Repercussions are, in fact, the downfall and demise of all fantasies, and Carl is no exception. As a slave to this logic, he doesn’t act out, for fear of being locked up like an animal with all the people who ignore said logic. With Negan, maybe it’s not like that. Judging by his arsenal of weaponry and other unsettling provisions, the man knows what he’s doing. This probably isn’t his first rodeo. 

“That whole shitshow happened on my fuckin’ birthday, too,” Negan went on, “so yeah, I’m pretty pissed about it.” 

Carl feels like he should be more horrified by Negan’s disturbing intentions – and how open he’s been about them; perhaps he _is_ planning to get rid of Carl and is simply using him to vent until it becomes tiresome– but he sympathizes. Again, these thoughts have crossed his mind many times and Negan is so adamant about not harming a hair on Carl’s head that he calms and allows some of the lightness of before to return. 

“That’s all I needed to know.” Carl assures. It’s for a reason, and that’s good enough for him. He won’t try to escape. And if Negan has this secret side – one that submits to his darkest urges – then maybe he won’t mind meeting Carl’s. 

“So. You in?” Negan asks. It’s not something Carl expected him to say. While the thought had indeed suggested itself, why would Negan want some random teenager he’d picked up at the side of the road and ferried across the country to help him commit a crime? He’s clearly taken a liking to Carl, but is that enough of a reason to make the boy an accessory to murder? 

“Are you asking me to join you? And we get rid of Chet together?”

“You bet your sweet ass I am!” Negan grins widely. “Can’t do this without a sidekick, can I?” 

The decision isn’t without its flaws. Carl knows this is dangerous, that there’s a substantial chance they’ll both go down for this, whether it be incarceration or retaliation from Chet. But Negan is unlike anyone he’s ever met and their weird mutual trust is drawing him in. 

He’s in a trance. 

“I’m in.”


	5. Your daddy taught you wrong

Beautiful copses of trees line the shimmering roadside lakes like willowy spectators. The SUV is advancing at a steady pace South, gliding along the smooth tarmac like it doesn’t exist. It’s tranquil, save for the fleet of engines surrounding them. The cool air hits Carl’s face just right from the open window as it whips past the car, a welcome reprise from the sweltering heat. He smiles to himself, a gesture of his peace with the situation. Perhaps it will last, perhaps it won’t. 

Before long, the landscape starts to look familiar. They’re in Georgia. Carl has lived here for most of his life, after Rick uprooted them from Kentucky all those years ago. He’d hated it there. While there was no drama with his parents’ breakup – they made the decision amicably, both concluding it was the correct choice for them as individuals – living there was a daily reminder of how it used to be with the three of them. Uncomplicated and free. 

Though, if Rick hadn’t moved them from Kentucky, Carl wouldn’t have met the friends he currently cherishes. Though few, they've played a huge part in helping him cope with the loss of his eye. And Michonne, just last year, wouldn’t have become such a vital piece of their little family. 

Carl reflects on the weird phenomenon that is Judith Grimes. The birth of his sister, the same year he got shot, was a surprise, as was Lori’s request for little Judith to live with them in Georgia (Rick had visited her and his old cop buddies just under nine months before, and later disclosed this information rather sheepishly to Carl, who couldn’t quite believe his ears). 

Judith won’t remember living with Lori for those two months after her birth. She speaks to her mother on the phone sometimes, babbling about the latest episode of Arthur or the friends she’s making at school. But Lori seems detached, never quite available enough to talk to her daughter. Or her son for that matter. 

Carl doesn’t let the bitterness of his thoughts deter him from relishing his current mood, which is somewhere between dull alarm and excitement. It's only when they pass a sign indicating Atlanta’s imminency that it properly sets in; he’s actually doing this. He’s not just along for the ride anymore. He’s going to help this random guy _murder_ a bunch of people. 

That’s another little nugget of information Negan left out; it’s not solely Chet they’ll be ridding the world of. No, he’s got a whole posse of prats in that house with him. The gang that supposedly beat Negan to within an inch of his life. 

The engine rumbles to a crunchy halt on the gravel, wheels spitting up tiny stones. They’re in a small clearing at the end of Chet’s lane, obscured by trees on all sides for optimal cover. Chet lives on a large plot of land a couple miles from the city, somewhat out of the way of the general public, who hopefully won’t be disturbed by the gunshots. 

With the SUV nestled up against a tall hedge, Negan and Carl stand side by side, regarding the contents of the trunk. Pushing aside the table, Negan hands Carl one of the loaded pistols. It’s a Kel-Tec PMR-30, safety on, known for its superior mag capacity. 

“Thirty .22wmr rounds of pure fuckin’ bliss.” Negan grins proudly, practicing excellent trigger discipline even though his index finger itches to be let loose and fire at the buzzard that’s circling overhead, “I’d jack off to this baby if that wasn’t super fuckin’ weird.” 

A vivid thought, that’s for sure – one that Carl could have done without for the moment –but it’s almost adorable how dorky the man is about the weapon. It’s clear he respects it. He values the dangers as well as the favors it can lend, which is the difference between him and most firearm owners. 

It’s not until he brings his baseball bat out that Carl learns the true extent of Negan’s admiration for weaponry. He handles it with tenacity, comfortable enough to gauge the exact momentum it would take to, for instance, crush a can of soda into the ground. He _is_ a gym teacher, to be fair, so it makes sense. 

“Kid, meet Lucille,” he swings the bat up and over his shoulder, narrowly missing Carl’s knee. The pride in his eyes at the object is unmissable but it gives Carl an uneasy feeling, and he just has to know. 

“Don’t tell me your ex-wife’s name is Lucille…” 

There’s a pause and Negan’s face darkens a little. “Why yes, it is actually, Carl,” he says provocatively, annoyance tinging his tone as he steps into the boy’s space and bends his neck to level with his eye in a steely glower. It’s condescending and the shorter of the two wishes it were not so. He’s clearly hit a nerve here. “Do you have an issue with that?” 

Carl holds his gaze, cocking his head to the side, “it’s weird.” 

Negan’s face doesn’t change and for a second, Carl thinks he’s made a mistake. It would probably be in his best interest not to anger the man holding a baseball bat across his broad shoulders. But then Negan cracks a small smile, licking his lower lip and giving a minute shake of his head. “You’re ballsy, kid. I like it.” 

Carl lets go of an elusive breath and feels the tiniest blush coming on. His eye flicks to Negan’s lips for a second because he’s so close. Maybe these feelings he's having are the beginnings of a crush. He could lean forward just a little bit and – then Negan turns back to the car and the moment’s gone. 

He examines the Kel-Tec in his hand, regarding it with a mixture of wonder and contempt. He’s handled guns before, thousands of times. Rick started taking him to the local shooting range after the incident with his eye to help with his coordination. He’s gotten pretty good and can land a Glock 19 bullet between the empty eyes of a silhouette from twenty feet away without breaking a sweat. The issue is that range targets don’t move – well, some of them do, but Rick had deemed them beyond his skill breadth, and of course, Carl had returned on his own to try them out – or shoot back. These criminals will. Though, calling them criminals is a touch hypocritical based on what Carl and Negan are about to do. He chooses not to dwell on it. 

As he inspects the object, he sees that the suppressor has been added DIY. Negan must know his way around firearms because this isn’t an easy task. Carl wants to know if it will actually stop the sound of the bullet being pushed from the barrel. “I’m going to try this on something.”

“Well don’t look at me, kid, I don’t volunteer,” Negan says quickly, turning to watch. He’s disguising it as curiosity but really he just wants to test Carl’s aim. “You know the basics, right? Gun points away from the nice man with the baseball bat; safety off, aim at something without an engine or opposable thumbs for now; and pull the trigger.” 

Shouldn’t be too difficult, even with an audience _quite literally_ breathing down his neck. But he wants to make a good impression so Negan will appreciate his worth to this truly fucked up undertaking. Maybe he yearns for the man’s approval a little too much. 

Ignoring the complete lack of faith in his intelligence, Carl brings his hands up and shoots. The middle of a tree on the other side of the clearing explodes with three bullet holes, all under four inches of one another. It makes a funny _zap_ sound but the presumably soldered or perhaps superglued suppressor works. 

“Damn,” Negan praises, “you’re not bad. Could shoot the presidents wig off like that… but if you really want to be perfect – and I’m talking ‘take his goddamn armpit hair off’ perfect – then you gotta work on your stance.” 

“My dad taught me all this,” Carl waves him off. He doesn’t need help with this kind of thing. 

“Hate to break it to you, but your daddy taught you wrong,” Negan leans Lucille against the SUV and takes a showy glance at the house, “c’mere, I’ll show you. We got time.” 

Carl would have again pointed out that Rick is a cop and receives frequent training for this exact purpose, but he keeps his mouth shut. The feeling of Negan standing unnecessarily close behind him and enveloping his smaller hands to guide them is a welcome one. 

_Breathing, Carl, that’s a thing. And it’s fun for all the family. You should try it. Don’t be distracted by Negan’s mouth, which is far too clo- you’re being distracted by Negan’s mouth, which is indeed far too close to your ear. Great. And you’re not listening to a single thing coming out of it. Good job._

The internal monologue won’t stop and Carl has to tear his focus away from the proximity of their position to the task at hand. 

Five tense minutes later, Carl takes another ternary group of shots, which hit within a radius of two inches. Though the admission of this fact is a tad prickly, Negan’s method is more effective. 

“I know seein’ both sides ain’t exactly your forte but now you’ve got two ways of shooting under your belt,” Negan’s arm is slung around Carl’s shoulders, a proud teacher, “the boring way and the non-cop way…” 

Carl almost hits him for the jab about his ocular solitude but thinks better of it and lets the remark slide like water off a duck’s back, just as he’s grown accustomed to these last four years. 

Eventually, Carl finds himself armed with the pistol, a knife – for some fucking reason. He’s never once used a knife outside of the kitchen and he’s sure that he’ll pose more of a threat to himself out of pure inexperience than to Negan’s enemies – and the stun gun! This is the craziest thing he’s never done. There’s also an extra clip just in case he ‘gets _real_ bad performance anxiety’ and somehow misses thirty times. 

Negan has a similar arsenal, plus his unsettlingly named baseball bat. This is bothering Carl. Does he want to relight the fire with his ex-wife after this? Killing her boyfriend isn’t the way back to a cheater’s heart. Surely there’s no reason for Negan to even want to be with her after that, even if he forgave her. They must be toxic for each other. She’s the toxic one. You can tell that Carl isn’t jealous by how he’s fixating on the issue to the point of distraction. 

He tries to clear his head by asking, “now what?”

The slam of the trunk closing. “Now we wait. Thrilling, I know, but it’ll make the difference between getting through six of the bastards and getting though forty.” 

“There are forty people in there?” This is sounding more and more treacherous with each new development. 

“In Chet’s esteemed employment? Something like that. But the ones with day jobs, identities, overdue bills, families and everything in between will leave for the weekend at some point this evening. That’s when we’ll go in and mop up the rest. Leaving Chet for last, of course. I want to make sure I get him, and I want him to know that I know that I'm gonna make sure I get him. He’s a dish best served dead.” 

Carl nods knowledgably, “as all dishes are.”

The two stow themselves in the backseats of the SUV, where the windows are tinted and hostile to prying eyes. Carl wonders if Negan chose that aspect specifically for this purpose. It’s obvious he’s been planning it for a while. 

Watching and waiting. Waiting and watching. It’s not something that Carl loves and he certainly can’t say it’s something he’d do for fun. To make matter worse, they have a terrible view of the house through the hedgerow, especially in the dimming light. 

Negan makes it bearable. He can’t go two minutes without making a remark on _something_. He could commentate a pinecone and Carl would listen intently to see what the cheeky wooden fucker was up to. 

He’s sitting by the window – with Carl in the middle seat – explaining why Lucille isn’t in the house whose inhabitants they’re about to murder. She’s on a family retreat that happens every half a decade, which doesn’t sound shady at all. 

“Why did you wait until she left?” What he’s asking is petty and he knows it – he can’t stop himself though, “if you hate them both…” 

Negan’s face turns serious, almost ashen, “Lucille… I would never hurt Lucille. Despite cheating on me – because Lord fuckin’ knows I did the same to her – and leaving, she’s one of the least sucky things on this Earth.” 

He clearly still suffers a soft spot for his ex-wife, which is perfectly rational and reasonable, unlike Carl’s persistent, adamant envy. It’s like a green vine growing around his heart and he needs to find out how to control it before it gets too much. 

Before he can say anything else to out himself as a complete brat, Toxic by Britney Spears starts blaring from his pocket. 

It’s an incoming call from _Girl of my dreams._

“That your girlfriend?” 

“That’s Enid, she’s not my girlfriend. She stole my phone and changed it to that.” 

“She choose the ringtone too?” Negan is grinning now. He’s hopefully let go of the wife comments. If only he’d let go of his wife… Ok, Carl needs to stop. It’s really none of his business. 

“Sure,” Carl lies and swipes the screen, “what’s up, E-girl?” 

“Hey, where are you? Are you back yet? Ron’s dealing with the PowerPoint but we’ve got a mountain of photos to sort through. I’ve had a peek and the exposure value on the first hospital snap _actually_ makes me want to kill myself.” 

“Buzz it through photoshop, that fixes everything. As for my whereabouts, I’m, uh, kinda still on the way back. Might be a while though,” he shrugs at Negan, “I met someone and he’s letting me tag along with him back to King County. Just taking a quick detour first.”

“Oh sweet! So when’s the wedding?”

Negan’s got his arm around the back of Carl’s seat, leaning just close enough to hear that comment and make his companion go beet red. Carl fumbles to hit _speakerphone_ on the keypad. “Stop trying to set me up with everyone I share a three-mile radius with,” he groans, “you’re on speakerphone now so you better keep it PG for all our sakes.” _Mostly mine._

“Hi, Carl’s future husband! Hope he’s not being too much of a nuisance…” Enid laughs on the other end, “oh shit- I mean, shirt. Hold on, Hershel’s found the toolbox… Hersh!” Her urgent hisses get further away and there’s a shuffling as she chases after the toddler. The padding of tiny footsteps can be heard, probably heading straight for the nearest source of trouble. 

“Enid’s adoptive little brother. He’s quite the handful.” Carl explains for Negan’s benefit. 

“I’m two seconds away from covering the little bastard in bubble wrap. If he trips on the stairs _one more time_ …” she promises in a vague mumble, “anyway, I’ve got to go – Glenn and Maggie will be back soon. See you Monday, be safe, dude.” 

“I’ll take good care of him, don’t worry, young lady.” Negan sniggers at Carl’s indignant glare. He can already see Enid and Negan becoming friends and plotting against him. That is, if he survives today. 

It’s been almost an hour of the same view; here a tree, there a tree, some hedgerows to spice it up, a lane for diversity, and the house. It’s more of a mansion than anything; many cream-colored windowsills protruding from huge white walls on the front, and a big fence to keep the wild animals out. The garden is large and lined with rose bushes, with a barbeque that’s been in recent use on the patio. In any other context, Negan might have felt compelled to move in. If he weren’t so abuzz with masterfully concealed nervous energy, this might have been the perfect time to try out Carl’s camera. 

Negan’s resting his elbow against the window, which he can’t open for fear of detection. The SUV needs to look deserted in the unlikely event that someone takes notice of it, lest they alert the boss, and the entire gang rains down on the two like a monsoon. At least the sun is receding under the treeline so the heat isn’t excruciating. Leather jackets, while fashionable, don’t provide much respite from the hot weather. The front door hasn’t opened or closed but the lights are on, presumably for the swarm of pricks behind the walls. It would be so easy to just drench it in diesel and light the sucker up. Alas, the airtight plan he’s spent the last two years concocting is dependent on discretion. 

The only thing he hadn’t counted on, however, is Carl. The boy is a wildcard, showing up at the side of the road with a cowboy hat, a bandage, and a story. There’s something about him that Negan is so fascinated by. His lenient moral compass is a focal point of the man’s thoughts. Is this kid just searching for a quick adventure, will the heat get too much and he’ll call the cops? Will he pull the plug on the realization that he’s in too deep? 

No, Negan prides himself on his character judgement and Carl doesn’t seem like the type to back down. Negan definitely doesn’t _want_ him to be. Carl will keep him grounded and on task, alert enough to preserve both their lives. Negan’s got someone to protect now. Not that the teenager needs all that much protection; he could probably eliminate Chet’s gang just by glaring at them a little too intensely. Now _that_ would be worth seeing. 

While he’s thinking, Negan feels a gentle thud against his shoulder. Carl’s eye is closed and he’s breathing softly, cheek pressed against the dark material of the leather jacket. His hand falls in the gap between their thighs in his slumber. It’s twitching a little and the whole thing is so damn adorable that Negan can’t bring himself to look away. 

Remembering himself, he refocuses his attention to the house and tears his eyes from the sleeping teenager. “You better not drool on my fuckin’ jacket…” he grumbles but makes no move to push him away. 

Does he feel bad about dragging this kid into his shitstorm of a life? He’s just a normal teenager with friends and college stuff to worry about. But he’s so… there’s something so mysterious about him, at first it had been his eye but then he’d told that little sob story of how it happened, and he doesn’t seem to feel sorry for himself. Negan likes that, he respects it. More than that, Carl is bitter about it, but in the ‘I want to do something about it, let’s fuck some shit up’ sense, he’s not all ‘woe is me, what a misjustice’. The boy has a lot of pent-up anger and Negan intends to point that at Chet and his people. 

Obviously, the guy who caused Carl's injury is dead so he can’t get revenge, but maybe that’s the reason he’s so okay with what Negan is doing and why he warmed to the idea so fast. Negan had taken a gamble in his honesty about the situation. 

The incident in the parking lot had led him to believe that he would have to tie the poor kid up, roofie him so he wouldn’t remember anything, and leave the little one-eyed amnesiac on someone’s doorstep. That hadn’t been necessary, and now he has a sidekick who seems up for anything. He wonders how far ‘anything’ goes. It’ll have to stretch pretty damn far today. 

It takes another half an hour for the meeting to finally disperse, and there’s a stream of people and vehicles coming down the lane. They’ll ignore the SUV and turn left towards the city, unaware of the goings-on behind them. 

Negan shakes Carl awake, “up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty, we got work to do.”


	6. Accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lights, camera, action!!

It’s almost dinner time but the last thing on Carl’s mind is food. He’s about to do something incredibly dumb and potentially life-altering. He could wind up in prison for this, actual _prison_. His family will look at him like he’s scum through the bars. His friends won’t even get that far. 

There’s no going back now, even if he wanted to. Some violent urges must be satiated and when an opportunity like this lands in your lap, you take it. He rubs his eye when Negan exits the vehicle, only a little sheepish at having fallen asleep on the man’s shoulder. 

Carl follows and right as he’s about to retrieve his gun from the seat, Negan turns to face him and takes a step forward. Carl stops in his tracks. 

“Do you trust me?” He asks. 

It’s probably best not to admit that he has some doubts so Carl nods, awkwardly leaning against the car next to the door. “I guess so.”

“Not quite the shining stamp of approval I was hoping for… still,” Negan stands directly in front of him, hands coming up to the sides of his face. _What the fuck is this guy doing?_ He has the common sense not to push him away as he reaches the back of Carl’s head and starts undoing the bandage. “I got a feelin’ you’re gonna look all kinds of badass with this thing off.” 

Carl lets him, dumbfounded by this development and the boldness with which it’s enacted. He’s staring up at Negan, heart racing as he feels the last bit of material being removed from his face. He wants to cover his eye, to stop this guy pushing his hair out of the way to see the wound, but instead he’s subtly pressing up into Negan's hand like a goddamn cat. The injury, though healed over, is scarred and red, tissue having formed around an eye that isn’t there anymore. It’s shocking, even to the most seasoned professionals. 

“I’ve never let anyone do that…” Carl says, as much to himself as to Negan. 

Negan bites back the _I can see why_ and gives Carl the bandage, “they’re gonna take one look at you and piss their pants, kid. Hell, _I_ wouldn’t mess with you lookin’ like that.” 

Having his bandage off used to make him vulnerable. It made him feel small, so small that he’d become invisible and people would stop staring or valiantly pretending the elephant in the room didn’t exist. Negan makes it seem like a survivor’s _‘don’t fuck with me’_ badge. 

Carl needs to take the topic elsewhere, away from his eye socket and the tension surrounding it. He pockets the bandage straight out of Negan’s hand and pushes off from the vehicle, instinctively throwing his hat on and seizing his gun. “Let’s go.” 

“Hold your horses there, cowboy. We can’t go that way; guns-a-blazin’, we gotta take the scenic route,” he grabs Lucille and leads Carl towards the darkened hedgerow by the edge of the lane, parallel to the road. “Then we’ll enter the douchebag convention through the little bathroom window. It’ll be a squeeze,” he glances Carl up and down, “for me at least. From there, we’ll clear each room. These Kel-Tecs have painstakingly added suppressors for a reason, so stay quiet.” 

If Carl is interested in how he came to acquire such detailed information on the layout, he doesn’t ask. With extra clips and mutual trust in their back pockets, they head towards the house under the cover of semi-darkness. It stands out more now with its backdrop of pines and gloomy skies. 

“Just remember, these people are abysmal sacks of filth and we’re doing the world a hefty fuckin' favor by eliminating them.” Negan explains, spitting out a bit of branch that found its way into his mouth. 

“Yeah. We’re not exactly saving children from burning buildings or anything, but I get it. This’ll stop them hurting more people,” Carl reassures, “you don’t have to justify yourself to me.” The poison lacing Chet’s peoples’ consciences originates from the warm safety blanket of anonymity. The notion that their actions will fly under the radar because, in essence, it’s true. They don’t exist to the outside world. Not the ones that Negan and Carl are going after. 

Negan nods his understanding. Maybe he’s a little disturbed by the boy’s alarming disregard for human life (in light of a justification, of course), which seems to match his own. _So young but so jaded,_ he thinks. 

Once they’re through the window – and it really is small – they stand uneasily in the bathroom, Negan with his ear pressed to the door to ensure no one is the on other side. When he turns back around, he spots Carl pocketing three little wrapped squares of hotel-like soap. He sends him a look. 

Carl shrugs, “what? If there’s tiny soap to take, I’m taking tiny soap.” 

“That’s real nice. You should get that embroidered on a pillow before someone else does,” is the sarcastic whispered response. “C’mon soap thief, coast is clear.” 

There’s a blonde lady standing with her back to them at the end of the hallway, playing what sounds like Candy Crush. Carl finds himself looking at Negan for guidance, who motions towards her with his head, signaling that she’s Carl’s. That’s when the nerves kick in; there’s no taking back this action. If he kills this unarmed woman, that’s something he’s done for the rest of his life. It’ll stick with him, won’t it? 

Without giving himself time to change his mind, he slinks along the hallway and surfaces behind her, knife in hand for subtlety. 

“Hey,” he whispers in the girl’s ear, “guess who.” There’s literally no way she could do such a thing. 

Her mouth opens in a surprised _O_ as she turns, unsure whether there’s danger here or not. She doesn’t know how her life is about to be cut short by a misguided one-eyed teenager in a cowboy hat. 

“It’s nothing personal. Don’t take it to…” Carl plunges the knife through her chest with every ounce of strength he can muster, the adrenaline helping him along some, “heart.” 

He doesn’t expect her to fall forward, and he’s tugged to the ground with her, his hand still shakily clutching the knife which ended her life almost instantly. There’s a sizeable amount of light hair being drenched in a growing puddle of blood, which Carl jumps up to avoid. He’s seen gore before, this is nothing. 

Negan is watching the scene unfold like a proud mentor until he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t hesitate to bring his gun up and fire at whoever it is. It’s a tall brunette man with a smug face. Negan remembers him from the home visit after Lucille left. Blood spurts satisfactorily out the back of his head, covering the sickeningly yellow wallpaper. “Huh. I like this shade better.” He mumbles to himself. 

Another guy with straggly hair appears to nobly investigate the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor, sighing deeply at the prospect of further work. _Zap_. Another thud. Then another as a third follows. 

They move further through the house, side by side in the wide corridor. Each room holds more risk than the last but soon they’ve cleared all of them on this side of the house. Aside from a few hazardously placed boxes and what Carl believes is a flamethrower, they encounter very little peril. 

They creep cautiously up the south stairs, willing each one to stop creaking. There’s no audible indication that any of the bodies have been found, “how many are left?” Carl whispers. 

“Probably around two,” Negan, with the bat in one hand and his gun in the other, motions to where they might be. 

A woman of mixed race with dyed hair makes the mistake of walking around the corner at that very moment. Her pupils make a minute shift to account for the two figures to her right, and they must be her colleagues, because who else would they be? “Guys, come with me, Laura had an accident, we’re gonna need to get her some medical attention.” 

“She must have slipped and stabbed herself in the back.” Negan chuckles mockingly, “what a terrible _accident_ , happens to the best of us.” 

“Oh shi-” the woman starts, right before choking on Carl’s bullet. He can’t bring himself to feel sorry for these people. They harmed Negan while he was alone and unarmed, so why should they be shown the mercy that he wasn’t granted. Carl actually finds himself _angry_ at them all. 

Curly brown hair pokes around the corner, quickly ascending with little caution. It’s a big house, perhaps he didn’t hear the altercations. It takes him a second to recognise two figures in this dimly lit part of the house. Two silenced pistols are aimed at him with contest-like accuracy and rapidity. He raises his elbows across his face in a vain, bordering on moronic defense. Negan slings a couple of bullets at his stomach. He wants to watch this one bleed out. 

The guy sucks in a huge, gurgling drag of a breath, the impact knocking him clear to the floor, tensing in pain. 

“This guy, Nicholas I think, stole my fuckin’ desk lamp. Goddamn prick.” Negan says calmly in a disapproving manner. The crime doesn’t really fit the punishment. Nicholas’s eyes are pleading with Carl, who shrugs in apathy. He’s not going to help, is he? “Loved that thing, too. It was neon pink – a present from some students who thought it was an absolute knee-slapper.” 

There’s a low groan from the carpet, and tears roll down either side of Nicholas’s cheeks. 

“Can’t handle your bullets, can ya? Low tolerance is what that is. Have some more,” three _zap_ s, a couple in the chest and one in the leg for good measure, “build up that immunity. Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya, champ.” 

Negan turns on his heel, Carl in tow towards the final room of the level. Both guns remain drawn and ready for action. There are only two floors, the first; where Chet presumably is, and the second; which they’re on now. 

Upon entering, they find it’s a display room of sorts, collectibles lining the many glass cases and shelves along the walls. Seeing it for the first time, you might assume it’s a museum of limited-edition items and paraphernalia, not a hideaway for ne’er do wells. 

Newspaper clippings, doubtless of Chet’s accomplishments, litter one case in the corner and Carl eyes it with disdain. Negan is further into the room, near what looks like a model sunglass kiosk, and Carl turns to the door, an action figure catching his eye. 

Blue, black and yellow. It’s the unmistakable suit of Invincible, also known as Mark Grayson, from a comic Carl reads. One of Invincible’s traits is fast healing, which Carl had been envious of for a long time. 

“Drop it, you cycloptic little shit!” A man yells behind Carl, and when he turns back around, he sees a ginger apparition-type man with his skinny bicep encircling Negan’s chest and a gun to his chin. He’s shorter, peering out from behind him with long hair squabbling against Negan’s jacket like an elf. In any other situation it would be comical, but now it’s just creepy and sets Carl’s teeth on edge. “I said _drop it_.” 

Carl drops the gun. Negan, his face aimed upwards to avoid hitting the Glock-19 at his chin, gives a look that tells Carl to stay stationary. His heart is pounding. If Negan dies, how is he going to get out of here? How can he lose this person he’s grown so attached to within only a day, and then be unable to confide in anyone about it, ever? 

“Hey Numb Gingernuts, you remember me?” Negan - much more calmly than he no doubt feels – asks the man behind him, who’s shaking. Maybe he knows that half a dozen of the people he lives and works with are dead. Maybe it’s the thrill. 

There’s a scoff. “What’s it matter?” Ginger asks, licking his lips. He’s skittish, a mouse teasing a trap, shifting his weight back and forth from each foot as his eyes dart from captive to captive. Carl knows he could get the drop on him, easily. He wants to. 

Negan’s face twitches when the arm around his chest tightens. Carl itches to do something about it, to ignore Negan’s pointed look and simply dive for his gun, polish Ginger’s insides with a bullet or twenty. He wouldn’t miss, either. 

No good could come of this, however, as it would likely end up with Carl stuck in a room with two dead bodies and an extremely angry Chet. He watches it play out, hands flexing and clenching uselessly by his sides. It’s infuriating. 

“If you remember me, _Jared_ , maybe you’ll think twice before executing my sorry ass in front of this poor, innocent, impaired kid.” Carl thinks that’s a little harsh but he understands that Negan’s trying to strike a nerve in his captor, guilt trip him into dropping his guard, even just for a second. Carl doubts this guy still feels guilt. “Look at his eye, isn’t he scarred enough?” 

That’s Carl’s cue. This is the moment that could save his friend’s life. Without a pause, he stares Ginger in the eyes and lifts his hand to his hair. Pushing it up, his fingers drag through the brunette locks to expose the gnarly wound. Even healed, it’s shocking, and Jared loosens his grip on the man, jaw going slack with surprise or pity or disbelief. 

In a flurry of movement, Negan’s elbow leaps up to crash into the gun. He’s braced to lose his hearing for a minute or two but the weapon doesn’t fire off, just clatters to the ground, joined instantly by Jared, whose nose grows redder than his hair. Negan’s kneeling on his lower back now, his own gun to the nape of his neck. Lucille’s somewhere near, waiting for her moment. Out of pure spite, Carl would have kicked the bat under the cabinet if he weren’t preoccupied. He grabs his Kel-Tec, regains control of his panicked mind, and stands dutifully by Negan. 

Shocking a grown adult – who, given his line of work, had likely witnessed and accomplished many atrocities in his life – into letting his guard down hasn’t done wonders for Carl’s self-image, and he smooths his hair down over the shameful part of his face. It’s a vain, self-conscious act and, despite his occupation on the floor, Negan notices. 

“You look badass as hell, kid. Don’t let this piece of shit get to you.” 

Obscured behind a brave face and gritted teeth, Jared growls, “just kill me if you’re going to do it.” 

A scoff, “where’s the fun in that? Don’t worry your red head, man, you’ll find out what happens next,” Negan promises. The gun stays trained on Jared’s neck as Negan stands, finding a safe distance from him. “But first, my pretty little assistant here is going to tase the ever-loving shit out of you. Just for fun.” 

There’s a beat in which Carl gets worried. He’s never used a stun gun before and he doesn’t want the charge jumping to him or Negan. It’s not even clear whether that’s a thing that can happen, with his limited knowledge of tasing. 

“Keep that little freak away from me,” Jared, equal parts brave and stupid, demands. Carl feels Negan tense a little beside him at that comment, his trigger finger practically twitching. He’s no longer worried, and moves closer. “Stop or I’ll-” 

Jared’s cut off from his meaningless threat by a spike of 50,000 volts flooding his body. His muscles contract at sixty pulses per second, immobilizing his body to dance on the stretch of floor space. 

“I’ve bought houseplants more threatening than you.” Carl spits. He almost makes a ginger joke but decides he’s not that mean. He’s holding the stun gun to Jared’s upper back, making his shoulder blades spasm while the rest of him convulses for forty seconds or so until his head finds the heavy oak frame of a cabinet. Out cold, his eyes close, and Carl takes the pressure off of the stun gun trigger. The unconscious body goes limp. 

“ _Stunning_ ,” Negan announces. “ _watt_ a performance. Much better than other _current_ shows. Makes me want to _volt_ over a gate in excitement,” _I’ve got puns for days, kid, you’re gonna crack a smile at some point whether you like it or not._

Carl kneels silently for a few seconds, searching Jared’s pockets for anything sharp while the older man retrieves his bat. “I thought you were going to die…” 

Negan, with his trademark eccentricity shining brightly, spreads his arms wide and leans back, both eyebrows up as if to say ‘ _look at me, alive and well_ ’. The bat swings unremarkably between his index and middle fingers. He’s not a careless person but he certainly comes off that way. 

“Yeah, but… I don’t know…” Carl is actually teetering on the verge of tears now, the adrenaline having worn off only to be replaced by cautious relief, which is worse. This particular danger is incapacitated, sure, but what about Chet? He’s got to be the last one in the house but he’s probably heard the many ruckuses and armed himself to the teeth by now. 

“Boy, that really scared you, didn’t it?” Negan ponders, verbalizing exactly what Carl has just admitted to himself. He stands, wandering right into Negan’s arms. He awkwardly wraps his own around the man’s middle, feeling himself encased in a bear hug after a brief pause of surprise. From the outside, it’s probably weird, given their relationship, but at least the only one who can verify that is currently indisposed with Niagara’s twin ebbing from his nose. “I plan on keeping the Grim Reaper away – being very much alive and kicking ass – until I invite the bastard into my house for coffee and scones. This ginger prick couldn’t say boo to a goddamn gosling, let alone kill us.” He soothes into Carl’s hair. 

Though he doesn’t say it, it’s not his own life that Carl fears for. He knows the energy Negan exudes; he’s powerful and compelling, unstoppable in the way he conducts himself and others. But nothing can quell Carl’s impulsive and irreversible fear that Negan will be killed in front of him. He wants to hold onto him, stand in front of the bullets his mind has envisaged. 

Who says you need to know someone for more than a day to become disconcertingly attached? It’s unreasonable and rash and he knows it, he really does, but this is how his brain chooses to feel throughout the onslaught of new (highly illegal) experiences. 

They remain like that for at least a minute, both somehow reluctant to let go. It feels strange, remaining next to an unconscious person and _not_ calling an ambulance. “What do we do about him?” His voice is muffled by the leather jacket so he kicks Jared’s shin in case it’s not obvious. Also, he just wants to kick Jared. 

“Ginger’s coming with us. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion where Chet might be, so we’ll bring him.” 

They descend the North stairs, dragging Jared’s unconscious body along, his head bouncing on each step. “Oops,” Negan grins in Carl’s direction, “guess this is another one of them accidents. Lots of those goin’ round today.” 

Downstairs, things are a little less chaotic. Nothing on this side of the house has been broken (yet), no bloodstains or bodies to be seen. Two sets of footsteps – accompanied by the slow drag of a ginger man over the rug – draw near to the end of the hallway which will lead into a big, open room comprised of a kitchen and lounge area. 

Just as Carl steps from the corridor into the open space, he’s ambushed. He sees a flash of handlebar moustache before someone rams into him with a force akin to a wrecking ball. All the air is knocked from his lungs as he’s launched sideways to crash into the wall. 

There’s a commotion to his left as Jared is loosed to the ground with little care. “Don’t you fucking touch him!” Carl hears Negan yell, then he’s descending on Handlebar with a seething fury ferocious enough to turn an untamed lion into a fluffy little kitten. The guy, a deer in headlights, barely has a chance to react before a fist buries itself in his face and he’s knocked to the floor. Negan’s on top of him in seconds, bloodying his knuckles with each formidable blow. It’s not his own blood, though, and soon his hands are around Handlebar’s neck to resolutely squeeze the life out of him. 

“Don’t touch him…” he whispers. Moustache, as red as a tomato, claws at his face vainly. He’s dazed and weak and it’ll be the last thing he ever does. Carl, having recovered his own sensibilities, helps by grabbing Handlebar’s arms and pulling with all his might, using his weight to yank backwards. He manages to wrench them away from Negan’s face and keeps them there until the guy’s dead and the last ounce of strength is drained from his protests. His arms shake a little before going limp in Carl’s hands and the boy slumps back, eager to put distance between himself and the warm corpse. 

Negan follows suit, his leg still draped carelessly over Moustache’s stomach. His eyes have lost the manic glow they had when strangling him but they’re still bright and alive with the fight. It’s in that moment that Carl realizes Negan enjoys killing. He gains some sort of twisted satisfaction from the action. It’ll take Carl a while to admit to himself that he does too. 

The air is filled with the sound of two people catching their breath after a grapple, and Negan kicks the dead man’s arm away with the disdain one might have for an empty bag of chips. 

“Never a dull moment,” Carl observes with a breathy snort of laughter. He picks his gun up from Negan’s side, where it hit the ground after Handlebar’s impact. 

“You’re not wrong, kid… He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Negan asks, gentle and caring, prodding at Carl’s shoulder where he impacted the wall. 

“I’m fine,” he doesn’t abort his friend’s inspection. It’s funny how protective Negan is. He went ballistic on Moustache the very second he did something to harm Carl, and then two moments later he’s all soft edges and concern, the polar opposite. Carl has trouble keeping track. 

“Good.” Negan runs a hand over his face, only a little bloodied from Moustache’s blunt nails, “what a damn clusterfuck.” 

With Jared’s skinny, bruised form unceremoniously ditched on the carpet, Negan and Carl stand in front of a crimson door that somehow doesn’t fit the ambience of the majority of the house. It’s Chet’s panic room and Negan is adamant that he’s behind it. If the faint sound of flustered breathing is anything to go by, he’s right. 

“Hold this,” Negan passes Lucille to Carl, who wields it with something close to disdain. Lucille. What did Negan see in her anyway? The wife, not the baseball bat. The bat is actually pretty cool. The barbed wire is sharp under its thick wooden frame, and makes for a very effective, very dangerous weapon. It’s just a shame about the name and everything it signifies. “I’m gettin’ the car, got some things in there that’ll be useful in about ten minutes. Take care of Captain Head Trauma while I’m gone. Want me to get anything while I’m there?” 

“I’ve got coke in the front seat,” Carl mentions. 

Negan’s raises his eyebrows on his way out, “really? You don’t seem like the type…”

“Cola,” he hastily clarifies, “coca cola” Homicide is thirsty work, after all. 

“Gotcha.” 

When Negan leaves, the energy in the room noticeably dampens. It becomes predictable and monotonous. Kitchen, sitting room, red door, Jared. Nothing changes. There’s no shuffling of people lurking around corners ready to gun the intruders down. It’s just silence, save for heavy, frightened breathing from the other side of the door. Chet’s in a good room for panicking, Carl thinks. 

A loud groan makes Carl jump out of his skin and point his gun at the source. It’s just Jared waking up, _way_ later than a healthy person would have. He’d read somewhere that if you’re knocked out for more than ten seconds, something has gone horribly wrong. The combination of being tased and having his head clunked against every single step can’t have been healthy. He’s disturbing the relative peace with his stirring and Carl lowers his gun. This guy isn’t going to be an issue. He can barely see straight, let alone tackle Carl. 

His grumbles of pain turn into an unnerving laugh when he sees Carl on his own, which is all the more horrifying with blood plastering his face. He looks half mad but it’s just the concussion(s). 

“Is he your dad?” Jared doesn’t need to clarify who he’s talking about. His voice is a little hoarse. 

Carl decides to humor him until it gets boring. “No.”

“Some creepy uncle? Did he rope you into this? Feed you some bullshit about vigilante heroism? Tell you you’re doing something good?” He’s being way too talkative and it’s setting Carl on edge. 

It’s already getting boring. “Why do you want to know, man?” 

“I want to know if he did that to you,” Jared, a safe distance away, gestures at Carl’s face. “And I’m curious how two psychopaths get together and pull this off,” he motions around the air in general. 

Carl knows he’s not a psychopath. Maybe Negan is, but Jared seems to be using the word in the non-medical sense. The sense that gets carelessly assigned to people who don’t fit their precious ‘normal’ way of thinking. The folks who do things a little differently, or whose moral compasses are more likely to favor South, are often tossed on the pile labelled _psychopath_ or _sociopath_ even in the face of disputing evidence. 

“This is the right thing to do. We’re preventing more people from getting hurt.” By wiping out a house full of crooks. He’s certain that the ends justify the means based on what Negan has told him, and if they don’t? Too bad. 

“Did he really brainwash you that badly? What, are you in love with him or something? Got a little teenage crush on the bad boy?” The scoff and disdain in Jared’s voice is infuriating, he just doesn’t get it. “You think he won’t throw your sadistic ass under the bus the minute you’re an inconvenience? Do you really believe that that monster gives a shit about you?” 

There’s a prickling heat in Carl’s chest and he wants to waste Jared right then and there. Has this man forgotten who has the gun? And the knife? And the stun gun? And the glare that can melt steel? In spite of the situation, he’s not the least bit emotional and it’s creeping Carl out. Jared’s just trying to get under his skin. “I know he does. And unless you want me to show you how sure I am, don’t call him that.” 

There’s a sigh as he recognizes that he can’t break this kid, “what should I call him then?” 

The stupid bastard doesn’t even remember Negan’s name. He was just another paycheck to Jared, not a person. 

Carl squints and cocks his head, “Fairy Godmother. Now shut the hell up.” 

“Bu-” the boy brandishes the stun gun and makes it buzz menacingly, “-right.” 

A couple minutes later, Negan returns with some clear plastic sheets, Carl’s cherry cola, and a triumphant smile. 

“Well my my, you’re awake! How’s my favorite ginger doing? You all good?” Negan talks like he’s conversing with a relative at a family barbeque. 

Jared’s trying his best to maintain his cool through the roaring headache and impending doom, “if ‘good’ means fucking atrocious, then yes.” 

“Those aren’t really interchangeable.” Carl points out simply to annoy Jared. The guy can try all he wants to be tough; he’s going to die. 

Negan changes the subject, “we gotta get Chet to open this car crash of a door. What a fuckin’ eyesore,” he says, taking Lucille from Carl. Then he winks and the boy can actually sense the joke coming, “you’re lucky you can only half see it.” There it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Jared (but not really)...


	7. Big Bad Wolf

“Little pig, little pig, let me _in_!” is the first booming sentence of encouragement, accompanied by Lucille’s cured wood pounding on the door. Carl is kind of excited. He doesn’t know exactly what his companion has planned, but Negan sure loves putting on a show. Carl leans against the wall a couple feet away from the door, keeping an eye on Jared while watching Negan at work. He looks so effortlessly focused, it’s mesmerizing. 

There’s no answer. Judging by the stone-cold silence in the room, Chet would be more inclined to start a house fire than give himself up. 

“Don’t make me huff and puff.” Negan warns seriously after a minute, “I’m getting’ through this motherfucker one way or another.” 

There’s some shuffling and what sounds like searching. “Gavin! Simon! Heath!” presumably Chet yells in desperation. He’s been hyperventilating for the past five minutes but this is the first thing his nasally voice has managed to utter. 

A smug grin, “and off it kicks,” Negan whispers in Carl’s direction before turning to the door threateningly, “you’re shit out of luck, I’m afraid, they’re not breathing very well at the moment. Anyone else you want to try? The smarmy beanpole who couldn’t tell his ass and elbow apart in a lineup? That smokin’ hot blonde? You’ve only got one phone-a-friend left and he sure as shit ain’t gonna be much use.” 

Carl sees Negan’s smirk grow as the shuffling gets more panicked. This is going to be fun. It’s like a cat toying with a mouse and he gets to witness this game of human depravity. He should be more disturbed by the whole thing but considering what they just did, he’s way past that point. 

“Laura! Jared, get your asses over here!” 

“Damn, you just _do not_ get it, do you? They’re dead as fuckin’ donuts over here, Chet! Most of ‘em anyway. You can yell until the goddamn cows come home, but Daisy ain’t gonna save you now.” 

“What do you want?” The man on the other side of the door sounds like he’s on the verge of hysterics. Grow a fucking backbone, dude, it’s not that hard. 

“I want you to come out here so we can have a little heart to heart,” Negan’s motioning this way and that, even though Chet can’t see him. He walks in a circle at a villainous pace as he talks, “it’ll be fun, I promise! I’ll bring juice cartons; we’ll make a day of it.” 

Even if Carl wasn’t right there, he would be able to _hear_ Negan’s grin. It’s a captivating sight to watch and he feels like a protégé. Maybe he should be taking notes. 

“I have money, you can take whatever you want… I’m not coming out!” 

“Wow. What a _declaration_. Why don’t you say it again, a little louder this time, with feeling! I’m sure Lucille and your parents will have somethin’ to say about it. Come on out and talk to them.”

There’s a pause and Negan moves his hand in a circular hurrying motion, rolling his eyes. Carl almost laughs. 

“L- Lucille’s away and… my parents are in San Francisco…” 

“Do you _really_ want to risk hurting them by making me remove their gags? Tons of accidents-” he sends another knowing wink Carl’s way, “-can and _will_ happen that way.”

“You’d never hurt Lucille!” 

Maybe Chet knows Negan a bit better than originally anticipated. Still, “is that a risk you’re willing to take right now? It’s up to you. The ball’s in your court so you better make a _mighty_ good swing.” 

“No, they’re safe, they’re…” Chet mumbles something unintelligible. He’s no doubt reasoning with himself at this point, weighing up the probability that Negan is lying. Anyone thinking straight would call the man’s bluff immediately, but Chet is not of that mindset right now. 

Negan shakes his head at Carl as if a child has just dropped a toy out of the playpen, “it’s like playing tag with a cactus.” 

“Break the door in with Lucille,” Carl suggests, knowing full well that such a move would prove ineffective. Maybe the wood would crack and Negan would lose interest in her; the spell would be broken and she’d just be a regular, unnamed baseball bat (wrapped in barbed wire). 

Negan is hovering by Carl’s shoulder now, Lucille slung over his own, keeping his speech quiet, “he’s about to break, I can feel it… watch this.” 

The focus is back on the task, “do _not_ make me ask again, Chet.” His voice is almost a growl and he’s so close to the door that with one more push, he could probably split the atoms and walk right through. He’s not lacking in determination for such a feat. 

“Shit…” 

There’s the _click_ of a lock being slid out of place followed by the creaking scrape of wood against tile flooring. Finally, Carl catches a glimpse of Chet. He’s predictably terrified, sweatier than the Olympics and not looking especially brave. Dyed blond tips sit atop spiky brunette hair. His face is the picture of terror until he sees that Lucille and his family aren’t there, and his expression transforms into _oh shit, I’ve made a mistake._

Negan places a hand on his shoulder and maneuvers him from the safety of the doorway. Carl observes the look Chet shares with Jared and almost – _almost_ – feels sorry for them. It’s not like his bloodlust is completely heartless; he understands these two people have thoughts and emotions as complex as his own. It’s just… they’ll continue to hurt people for as long as they live. They hurt Negan. Carl doesn’t ask himself why he cares so much, he just does. Almost obsessively. Their friendship is screwed up and compulsively formed and he doesn’t even _want_ to question it. 

“Take good care of these two upstanding gentlemen for me, Mr Grimes, and I shall see you on the flippety flop,” he bade before disappearing into the panic room with the plastic sheets. Carl hears a table being shoved onto its side, and the scraping of chairs being pushed around. Again, he’s in the dark about what Negan is going to do but if he’s moving furniture, it must be serious. 

With pleading eyes and a quiver in his pathetic voice, Chet starts, “kid… listen to m-”

“Already tried.” Jared interrupts dismissively. The teen is just as crazy as the vengeful one, only a whole lot meaner. 

It takes a matter of minutes for Negan to reappear. He grabs Chet by the collar and drags him back into the room, instructing Carl to do the same with Jared. Pressing the barrel of the gun to the redhead’s back, Carl forces Jared to follow. He’s shaky and inelegant on his feet, using the doorframe and walls to keep himself upright. 

The room has been transformed from a safe, minimalist space to a horrifying scape of plastic. Even the upturned table by the wall is covered in the sheeting, and a spike of adrenaline shoots through Carl’s body. It’s about to get bloody. He’s never been squeamish but the PTSD from the school shooting is enough for a lifetime so he hopes his brain doesn’t try anything silly. 

Jared and Chet kneel a short distance apart in the centre of the futuristic-looking room. Carl stands facing them, dutifully watching the two men for any sign of trouble or noncompliance. Instead, he just sees fear. Jared’s head keeps drooping and the dried blood all over his upper lip is beginning to flake off. 

Negan pulls Carl aside for a brief sidebar. His arm drapes around his shoulders as they speak in hushed tones, their backs to Chet and Jared. He’s almost daring Jared and Chet to jump up and run at them. In fact, Carl thinks he _is_ daring them. “You ok?” 

“Fine, why wouldn’t I be?” Carl mimics his low voice in the close proximity. It’s almost peaceful. 

“It’s not inconceivable that you may have a little moral kerfuffle going on, or perhaps you’re scared?” Negan is just checking up on him and it’s sweet, sure, but wholly unnecessary and more than a little condescending. 

“I’m not a child.” He squints his eyes at the man, trying to look as unaffected as he feels. There’s a task and he’s on it. That’s where his mind is focused. He can unpick the rest later. 

“Resilient as ever,” Negan gives him a grin and leans closer still. Carl feels his face heating up, “I dig it. Good boy.” 

Negan’s expression turns at the same time his body does, eerily but full of cheer not shared by the kneeling duo. 

“Negan…” Chet starts. At least _he_ has the decency to remember the man’s name, Carl thinks. Maybe they were friends before all of this.

“Look at _this_ … Man, the hands of time really slapped you in the fuckin’ face, didn’t they? It looks like your eyebrows are actually _scaring_ your hairline. Je-sus. Is this even real?” Negan, knowing full well that Chet’s hair in all its receding glory is very much attached, reaches out and tugs on it, hard. Carl can see the pain on Chet’s face radiating from the violent contact. He’s practically lifted off the ground. “Huh. Guess it is… you have a lovely home, by the way,” it’s not even a lie, “shame about the bodies. I will say, I am _sorely_ disappointed that you didn’t show up to give us the grand tour. We had to explore all by our lonesome! Does that sound like good manners to you?” 

Ignoring the question, which is never a good thing to do with Negan, Chet speaks shakily and with too much volume, “I know people who can make the hate go away, they can help you!” 

Negan lets out a deep laugh which Carl will describe as evil. “Am _I_ the one who needs help here?” The answer to that is a sliding scale of relativity but at least Chet has the presence of mind not to smartass him. 

“What’s this about? Is it Lucille?” 

“When she first left me for you, I’ll admit, I was pissed. She can do what she wants, but it was _so brutally sudden_. We didn’t even have a goddamn conversation about it. She was just… gone. Then your posse of pricks showed up at my doorstep like Hell’s room service. Those guys gave me the birthday bumps like you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe. Some celebratory broken ribs and head trauma to top it off. They put my neighbor in hospital too. Thanks for ordering that, shit-heel. Real mature.” He’s swinging Lucille forebodingly, “that’s when I started researching your prestigious organization and found out all the shit you get up to.” 

“I didn’t tell Simon to do any of that! He’s deranged, he did that of his own accord. I was absolutely mortified when I heard how he and his unit treated you!” Chet is obviously trying to buy Negan’s trust, separate himself from the lowlife thugs who caused Negan the pain and suffering for which he wants someone to pay. 

Negan cocks his head, eyebrows up, “oh, without a _doubt_! I can picture it now; you were _blinded_ by fury. A subordinate violating your unmonitored rules and embarrassing this fine institution? Wow. Despicable. Bet you were outraged _all_ the way into bed with my wife.” 

Chet clearly doesn’t have anything to say about that. 

Negan scoffs quietly, “that’s what I thought.” 

There’s a few more minutes of tense monologuing, the pair on the floor growing gradually more nervous. Carl is hanging off of Negan’s every word, trying to get a hold on the man’s complex thought process. He’s somewhat of a vigilante. He takes childlike glee in administering his own punishment, the leniency and cruelty of which hinge off his mood on any given day. Carl hopes to be like that when he’s older. 

Negan is doing a lap around the room – all the world’s his stage – rubbing his beard in thought and telling Chet just how little he appreciates him, when a phone rings from behind some plastic sheeting. He pauses the lecture to investigate, pulling the sheeting away and reaching into a cabinet drawer. He announces that it’s Chet’s phone and shuts the volume off before pocketing it, clearly distracted by something else in the drawer. 

There’s a disdainful laugh at whatever’s in there, “pistachios. Really?” He pulls out a mason jar of assorted nuts, holding it at arm’s length with a frown of disgust. “Pistachios are a fucking war crime.” 

It’s at that moment that Carl wonders if Negan truly has gone off the deep end. Is he going somewhere with this? It’s more likely that he wants to drag this whole thing out to scare his captives more. 

“You can take them if you want…” Chet, that doesn’t even make sense. This man has just expressed his distaste for the snack, and you go and offer him the whole jar? 

“I think I’ll pass on that, Chet. Pistachios and cashews are the two sides of Satan's fucking nut sack - literally - and really, karma should’ve come down on you like a ton of bricks just for this," he drops the jar. It bounces under-dramatically but still makes Chet jump five feet in the air. 

“You know, I watched this kid blow a girl’s brains out earlier and that _still_ isn’t the most messed up thing I’ve seen today.” He shakes his head reminiscently, “fuckin’ pistachios…” 

Man, this guy really hates pistachios. Or maybe he’s working an angle. 

“Make sure the cabinet’s covered,” Carl reminds Negan, who seems to have forgotten about the gap in the plastic sheeting. He’s attempting to amplify the situation for Chet and Jared (mainly Jared) by copying Negan’s methods, “blood stains easily.” 

Negan just turns to him flamboyantly, “are you backseat murdering right now?” 

The boy shrugs, “seems important.”


	8. Sticks and stones

Carl stands at the front of the room, gearing up to witness… whatever he’s going to witness. He’s unsure, though the baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire is indeed a bit of a giveaway. Also the fact that they’ve killed enough people today to be labelled mass murderers by now. 

“You may be wondering why you’re in this here situation today, folks, which, I’ll give you, is fair enough. Who wouldn’t be?” Negan would make a great college lecturer, “this is punishment for all the hurt you and your people have caused. Not just to me, either. You’ve killed countless innocents, ensured that murderers-” the hypocritical nature of what he’s saying goes noticed but wisely unsaid by everyone present, “rapists and violent criminals roam free and unpunished. Not cool. And, just for the record, I _do not_ appreciate being beaten up or stolen from – I haven’t forgotten about that desk lamp – and-“ 

“Oh my god, stop _talking_ and just do what you’re going to do already!” Jared, still suffering the brunt of his head injuries, barks at Negan. Dread and rage are battling inside him to create reckless courage. 

“Shut up.” Carl murmurs fiercely, his gun coming up to impend at Jared’s head. He doesn’t like this man, not one bit. There’s something so reprehensible about his general demeanor and he’s actually enjoying keeping him in a box. 

“Don’t let that trigger finger get ahead of itself, boy,” Negan warns. 

“Ugh. Control your guard dog,” the ginger says next. He’s referring to Carl, which just angers everyone – except Chet, who’s relieved that the focus is no longer on him – even more. Maybe Jared really believes that Negan doesn’t care about Carl. “Or put him the fuck down.” 

That comment causes a stony silence as Negan glowers at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m going to be brutally honest here,” he says in a tone that scares Carl a little, despite the object of his wrath. He bends his knees to level with Jared. “This intriguing, optically challenged young angel has given me a new lease on life these past twenty-four hours and if you try to take him away from me, pit us against each other, or so much as look at him the wrong way, I will personally see to it that you castrate yourself with one of those pistachio shells you people love so much.” 

Carl is heating up at those kind words, getting flustered at how defensive of him Negan is being. He won’t pass up the opportunity to frighten their kneeling counterparts once again, though, “does that even work?” 

“What, castration? Yeah. I mean, pistachio shells aren’t the traditional gear, but it’s a pretty widespread procedure,” Negan shrugs, standing. If Jared has anything else to say, he holds his tongue. “Look it up.” 

Carl wrinkles his nose. “I… don’t want to do that,” he’s taken some evaluative guesses and decides it’s best to leave it. 

Maybe it’s his imagination, but he thinks he sees a wet patch under Jared’s eye. Just a little one, maybe it’s moisture from sweat, or maybe the whole fiasco has finally sunk in. 

“And now,” Negan exaggeratedly paces to Chet, who’s openly sobbing at this point, a complete juxtaposition from Jared. “for the moment I’ve all been waiting for. I’m going to beat the holy fucking devil out of you. Or should I say, beat you out of you. Ginger, you watching?” he twirls Lucille in his hands almost lovingly. 

It’s becoming real for Jared and he’s unzipped his fantasy world. He’s now shaking even more than he was with a stun gun between his shoulder blades. Whether it’s terror or some final act of defiance, it’s unclear, but he says nothing. 

Negan pauses. That simply won’t do. He turns jarringly, head cocked and eyes narrowed (“ _really?_ ”) as he stalks toward the shuddery ginger. There’s a moment when Carl thinks Negan is simply going to hit him first, but he instead moves the bat to Jared’s chin. 

“I said,” Negan’s voice is minimal and subdued, challenging the guy to act out, “are you watching?” 

There’s a dawning of realization on Jared’s face as he grasps that no, this maniac is not speaking in the rhetoric, and he truly wants an answer to his question. “I… y-” his head nods of its own accord, the barbed wire digging into his chin, and blinks back the tears that are readily approaching, “yes.” 

Carl smiles. Jared has cracked ( _finally_ ). 

“Kid, make sure he keeps his front row seat.” Negan says to Carl, a sudden softness in his voice that wasn’t there a second ago. “Wouldn’t want him missin’ out.” 

Carl once again aims his gun at Jared’s head to ensure he keeps his eyes on Negan, who’s approaching Chet with malice. It’s a sizeable room and gives him enough time to do a suitably creepy swipe of Lucille through the air. Chet looks like a heart attack might take him out before Negan does. 

The tall, bat-swinging badass comes to a stop in front of Frosted Tips. His boots thud on the tiled flooring beneath the plastic. Lunacy practically radiates from his form but it doesn’t scare Carl like it should. He can’t stop staring at the man, even with his gun loyally trained on Jared. He should really keep an eye on the redhead but Negan is so distracting. 

“Sticks and stones may break your bones but,” Negan examines Lucille in a theatrical display, “this’ll probably hurt too.” 

And then he’s lifting the bat with enough raw strength to power a small steam engine and bringing it down on a head of frosted tips. The skull underneath is cracked instantly, short-circuiting Chet’s thought process and rendering him unable to speak. 

The second blow takes out his critical faculties, along with his ability to keep his body upright, and he slumps onto the plastic. It’s not clear whether he’s dead yet but he sure is on the brink. The only sound – aside from the squishing of wood hitting infiltrated cranium – is an uncontrolled whimper originating from the business end of Carl’s gun. Jared doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

The third blow hits the tiles behind Chet’s head, having gone straight though. It’s not the action that’s jarring – not to Carl at least – it’s the repetition even after the deed is done, the need for a doomed audience and the almost business-like surety in which it’s all carried out. Still, he can’t stop watching. 

“You’re mad…” Jared whispers. Then a stray bit of brain glob splashes onto his face, “oh, God, fiddlesticks…” he’s not paying attention to whatever he’s saying, just allowing nonsense words to spill out alongside his tears. The gravity of the situation has irreversibly set in, if it hadn’t already. It took long enough. Carl watches the very essence of his being leave the ginger’s pale eyes. 

Negan continues his assault with the baseball bat, the barbs getting all bloody and stringy with the tissue that used to serve as Chet’s functionality. “Look, Ginger, I under _stand_ that this is a tense situation-“ _impact_ , “-and we’re all a little jittery from today’s events-“ _impact_ , ”-but let’s watch the fucking language.” 

It's the most terrifying and alluring display of power and madness that Carl could have dreamed of and he's not sure which way he wants to run. Wide-eyed, he watches the slaughter. He's glad he's in Negan's good books, and he’s ninety-nine percent sure that the man won’t harm him. 

“Feel free to shoot Ginger at your convenience. I think he’s had quite enough of today’s anatomy class and he’s halfway through death’s door already. May as well finish the job.” 

Carl doesn’t need to be told twice. _Zap_. The horrified expression on Jared’s face stays there even as he hits the ground. His final moments bore witness to the brutal murder of his boss, the knowledge of his own imminent demise hanging over him. Still, according to what Negan said, it’s no different to what Jared did to others in his life. Good riddance. 

Negan slams the bat down mercilessly on the alarming mound adjacent to Chet’s neck once more, breathing heavily. He’s freckled with blood, but most of it managed to miss his face. Carl is chillingly attracted to him in that moment and he gulps with the realization. Yet another inexplicable thing that his mind does. Maybe he’s just tired. It’s near enough eight in the evening now and it’s been a stupidly long day. 

Giving a low laugh, Negan steps back, Lucille dripping by his side, “happy birthday to me."


	9. Dig for victory

So. This happened on Negan’s birthday. Carl finds it poetic, really, that Negan would choose this day two years later to exact revenge and take out the criminals once and for all. Two years. Negan has been planning this for _two years_. Carl wouldn’t have been able to wait that long, not in a million years. In fact, it would _feel_ like a million years. Especially knowing that Chet’s group was continuing to wreak havoc against others during that time. 

Carl drinks the whole can of cherry cola – using a straw from Chet’s kitchen– before he could recite the alphabet. Murder really _is_ thirsty work. And the work isn’t over, either, as his next task is to dig a massive hole in the garden. He dons Negan’s headtorch (the guy is nothing if not prepared) and a dead guy’s coveralls – which are possibly the least flattering attire imaginable, he may as well put on a potato sack and call it a day – over his clothes and reapplies his bandage to avoid dirt entering the wound during this part of the clean-up process. It healed a long time ago but, thanks to the various nasties that like to lurk around, it’s still susceptible to infection. 

While it’s not as dark as it would be in winter, it’s still bitterly cold, inheriting gusts of wind from the Northwest, and Carl is on the wrong side to receive any shelter from the house’s walls. Negan points out where to dig and disappears inside to collect the various debris of their massacre while Carl hunts for a shovel. Once he starts digging, he’s reminded of why he hated gym so much in high school. If he could fake a sick note to Negan, he would. 

When Negan, wearing a similar garb under his jacket, comes out with the first body, Carl has dug around the edges of what will soon be the grave. Negan is dragging a corpse by its underarms, and lays it ten feet from the grave. A puff of exertion dissipates into the air above. 

Once the man is gone, Carl finds himself unable to take his eye off the body. It’s the second girl he killed – dark skinned and pretty, but with frown lines like someone told her at a young age that smiling was illegal – her face is a sore sight to behold and he wishes Negan had covered her or at least closed her soulless eyes. There’s not a hint of regret, but he does have to look away when the nausea creeps up on him. 

Negan returns with a second body fifteen minutes later. It’s Nicholas, the curly-haired burglar. Upon seeing how little progress Carl has made, he prompts, “hurry up, kid, I intend to bury the Prick Parade at _some_ point this year. If you take any longer I’ll be jumping in there with them,” he motions to the grave. 

“I’m just cold,” it’s not a lie, it’s a redirect from his thoughts of the dead girl, “stupid hands won’t work…” 

Carl expects Negan to laugh at him or make a snarky comment. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket and throws it to Carl, “here, I’m sure you’ll wear it better than me.” (He doesn’t, but the sentiment is nice). Gratefully, Carl pulls it on and continues digging. The garment is big and he has to keep tugging the sleeves up but it smells like Negan and preserves his body heat so it’s fine. 

“I had a fight with a goddamn rose bush trying to wrestle Simon’s body out,” Negan shoves Handlebar to the floor like it could hurt him some more. “Spoiler alert; I won. Showed that spiky motherfucker who’s boss. This guy-“ he kick’s Handlebar’s leg, “was no help whatso-fucking-ever.” 

Carl laughs, wiping some sweat from under his bandage. The only body missing from the pile is Chet’s, and Negan is definitely procrastinating from scraping him up off the panic room floor. Carl isn’t jealous of that particular task. No, he’s fine freezing his ass off with a shovel in his hands, thanks. 

The hole, projected to be almost seven feet deep and half that wide, is coming along nicely, save for the fact that Carl has _no way of getting out_ and is flinging packed dirt up over the walls with the blind hope that it’ll all land conveniently. 

Somewhere in the big wide world beyond his dirt prison, Carl hears footfalls over the grass and the low grumble of Negan’s voice saying something along the lines of, “reminds me of that scene in Breaking Bad…”. The sound is accompanied by the squish of liquid inside a great deal of plastic sheeting, like a partially filled water balloon being dragged through a garden. 

When Negan gets closer, he peers into the grave to see a very sheepish-looking Carl stuck at the bottom. “I can’t get out…” 

Ordinarily, he doesn’t love accepting help, but this time he can make an exception. After several minutes of his friend guffawing at his situation – Negan actually has to remove himself from the garden entirely at one point – he comes to Carl’s aid. The boy passes the shovel up and takes the two extended hands in a tight grip. There’s a countdown before Carl is finding purchase on the roots and rocks of the curved edge of the grave, being hauled up by Negan. He’s strong enough to lift him relatively quickly, and when the boy surfaces, they overbalance and Carl lands on top of him, smearing dirt over his matching coveralls. 

“Gross, kid, you got enough dirt on you to blackmail a damn army.” Carl had managed to stay relatively dirt-free throughout the process of digging, but scrambling up the wall didn’t do him any favors in the cleanliness department. 

“You’re all bloody, and that’s _way_ worse…” Carl whines as he scrambles up, breathing heavily. He makes the mistake of glancing over at the newest addition to the pile of bodies and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Ignorance is indeed bliss when it comes to Chet’s lifeless appearance. He’s wrapped up tightly to avoid spillages and his neck is pressed up against the all-too-transparent sheeting. 

“Nobody’s perfect,” Negan dusts himself off, and he’s not stopped looking at Carl. “I’d yell at you for gettin’ my jacket muddy if you didn’t look so cute wearing it.” 

“You gave it to me while I was digging a hole, what did you expect? And… thanks,” Carl realizes belatedly what Negan said and instantly blushes almost as red a Che- actually, no, _nothing_ is as red as Chet right now. 

“So now Chet’s dead, what’s your plan?” Carl asks as they begin the arduous task of filling the grave in. Getting away with murder isn’t something he’s had to think about before and thus far, Negan seems to be sure that they won’t get caught. 

“He’s not dead,” is the simple and uninformative answer he receives. 

Carl purses his lips at the corpses being covered with dirt, “could have fooled me…”

“I mean, to you and me, he’s not gettin’ up anytime soon, but to the rest of the world? This paranoid fucker cleared out his bank account and fled the state, maybe even the country to escape the debt he landed himself in. I’ve taken every precaution – no one’s gonna come looking for this guy or his ghostly associates. At least, not until the house starts crumbling and the spiders are telling their great grandchildren about when people used to live here.” 

When that doesn’t seem to quell Carl’s concern, Negan carries on, “look at it this way. This house is on private land with the strictest privacy – but clearly not security – measures in place to prevent any nosy Nicks from finding out about the other residents, so even if the cops come a-knocking, they’ll need the owner’s express permission to search or even step foot on the premises. And of course,” Negan dumps another shovel full of soil on the bodies for effect, “the owner is, well, not here right now.” 

Carl nods in understanding, “or ever.”

Gingerly, he enquires about Lucille and what will happen when she gets back to her boyfriend’s empty house. “My ex-wife won’t be returning… I sent her a _very_ colorful text from Chet’s phone. I can guarantee that one hundred and twenty percent,” he pauses with a grin, “it was all _kinds_ of cathartic." 

Carl hopes that means what he thinks it means. He’s over Lucille. Or at least, getting over her. Either way, Negan clearly doesn’t want to reignite their old fire. Carl stands a little taller and dumps soil on the corpses with new vigor. 

It takes an hour for them to fill the grave in, sprinkling seed packets evenly over every part of the garden for the most covert coverage in the future. The grass and wildflowers will have grown over by the time anyone finds anything amiss about the property (for instance, that the owner dropped off the face of the planet). 

“Adios, you goddamn fucknuggets.” 

“Rest in pieces, Chet.” 

“Nice.” 

Once the deed is done, Carl and Negan re-enter the house and prepare to stay the night. Carl slings his backpack in what is probably Chet’s bedroom because it’s the biggest and by far the nicest. He has no doubt he’ll have to fight Negan for it later but he doesn’t mind. Maybe they’ll even end up sharing. He shivers at the thought, then shakes his head at the ridiculousness of such a notion. 

“Kid, go take a shower in case any stray Chet got on you. I already did when you were digging,” that’s why he took so long with the bodies… “I’m gonna find somethin’ to eat. There’s probably a horse or two around here,” he starts rifling through the well-stocked cupboards. 

On the way downstairs after getting out of the dead stranger’s shower and redressing, Carl gets distracted by a pink thing hanging off the edge of a chest of drawers by its wire, illuminated by the hallway light. He enters the dark room and picks it up, quickly realising that it fits the description of the desk lamp that the curly haired gentlethief stole from Negan. 

“Hey,” Carl says upon entering the kitchen and looking around Negan’s shoulder at the pot he’s stirring. He’s almost done making what can only be spaghetti by that point and the kitchen smells amazing. 

“Damn, think of the devil and he shall appear creepily and without warning behind you…” 

“Oops,” Carl says innocently. He’s always possessed a propensity for sneaking up on people, being light-footed and reluctant to draw attention to himself, especially after the eye incident. “Happy birthday.” 

Negan turns to him fully then and sees the neon pink desk lamp in his hand. It’s truly hideous and Carl can see why some high schoolers thought it was a hilarious joke gift. 

“Oh fuck yeah!” Negan exclaims grandly and immediately plugs it in next to the stove, “where’d you find it?” 

“In one of the rooms upstairs. It was kinda hard to miss,” Carl shrugs. 

“Shit, if beating Chet into the ground wasn’t enough, this just made my goddamn day…” Negan says excitedly, “it’s just as ugly as I remember. Perfect.” Carl assumes that this is one of those situations where sentimental value wins out over aesthetic, or any kind of taste. 

There’s a few minutes of Carl impatiently hovering near the stove before Negan instructs him to make sure there’s no blood on the dining table. It’s clear, as is the kitchen and the sitting room, except a few spots at the edge where Negan beat the crap out of Moustache or Simon or whatever his name was. 

When he comes back, the spaghetti sauce is almost ready and Negan puts a wooden spoon near his lips, “taste?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

For obvious reasons, Carl eyes the red, lumpy sauce with wary hesitance at first. Fortunately, he’s too hungry to care about the possible inferences his brain might endeavor to muster. There are certain connections he doesn’t need to be making. Not now, not ever. 

Carl sticks his tongue out to lick the sauce off the wooden spoon, watching Negan’s gaze follow the motion for a second before returning to his eye. He can see Negan’s face change ever so slightly, just a minute shift in expression, barely noticeable. It’s tense, one of those invisible moments that instantly bursts once it’s over; to be thought of but not spoken. 

It passes and Carl nods in approval. His own cooking talent extends to toasting a bagel every morning or heating up mac and cheese in the microwave, so he’s impressed. Also, he would literally eat a sack of coal right now if it meant his ravenous stomach would stop clawing itself to death. 

There’s a bottle of Posh-Looking Whatever from a cupboard – hey, Chet’s not using it – that disappears within about three minutes. That’s when Carl realizes his tolerance isn’t up to par with Negan’s, like, at all. 

“Damn. This has been tumultuous as fuck… what a strenuous month today’s been.” 

“Glad to see you’ve been consulting your Word of the Day calendar,” Carl smiles sweetly and Negan kicks him under the table, chuckling nonetheless. 

“It’s actually alphabet soup,” he grins, twirling some spaghetti around his fork, and whispers, “the pasta tells me what to say.” In his normal voice, he asks when Carl has to be back home. 

“Anytime tomorrow. My dad thinks I went back with Ron and Enid.” 

“So you can help me move in? I’ve only got a few things in the SUV at the moment but the apartment is mine as soon as I get the keys tomorrow.” 

“Sure, why not…” Carl, even after everything, is surprised that Negan willingly wants to spend time with him. Committing a dreadful crime together allowed them to bond and see each other’s secret sides. Those sides combine to create a strong, dangerous being, capable of anything. That’s how Carl feels at least, but analogies aren’t his forte. 

After they’ve eaten – or inhaled, in Carl’s case – dinner, they end up in the sitting room, talking over re-runs of the Olympics for a couple hours, telling the competitors onscreen how wrong they’re doing it. 

Negan, a skilled and seasoned gym teacher, at least has some idea of the scope of what the contestants do and how they do it. Carl, who skipped gym class so much in high school that his teachers didn’t even know of his existence, feels qualified to critique their form. 

Hours later, it’s completely dark out and time has no meaning in the large, mostly empty house submerged amidst a group of fields. Carl ends up laying on his side on the couch with his head resting on Negan’s lap, drifting in and out of sleep. He’s exhausted after the day they’ve had, and only the tiniest bit worried that he might one day be faced with a prison sentence longer than the Bible for what they’ve just done. Against all odds, he trusts Negan. If he says they won’t be caught, Carl believes him. 

There’s a chuckle from the land of the waking, “Jesus Christ, kid, even half asleep you look like you could execute me in seven different ways… you’re a budding serial killer, I can tell… and I’m pretty sure you’ve been asleep for half the time I’ve known you,” he thinks for a second, “and shockingly, that’s not even an exaggeration.” 

Carl can’t think of an insightful response to that, and just grunts tiredly in agreement. The warm weight of Negan’s hand on his side is comforting and sending him towards peaceful slumber. He feels the man’s hand slide over the dip in his waist to lightly press on his hip, then back up to play with his hair. He coils his fingers through the strands absentmindedly. 

With anyone else it would be creepy but with Negan it feels right. His hand is supposed to be there, Carl wants it there. He understands how much sense that doesn’t make, given how he met Negan yesterday and he’s probably the sketchiest, most law-breaking person Carl has ever met, but he’s too drained to question it. He slips into a shallow sleep and it’s the bravest display of trust he’s willingly shown a near stranger for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning; next chapter gets pretty steamy so if that kind of thing isn't your cup of tea, skip to Nice Scarf.


	10. Fuck it

It’s twenty minutes later and the equestrian event is well underway. Carl wakes up to the feeling of Negan’s fingers carding through his hair and making his neck bristle pleasantly. A shiver travels all over his body and he actually has to stop himself moaning. The man’s hand is stroking and twirling slowly, like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. It’s such a simple thing but Carl feels himself melting into the touch, his eye slipping closed again. Most people don’t make a habit of being near him, let alone touching him like this. So naturally, too. This is the closest he’s felt to another person in what feels like years. 

Negan notices the hitch in his breath and Carl suddenly feels creepy, he hopes this guy isn’t secretly a mind reader or something. That would be just Carl’s luck. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” Negan says without looking at him, then grins, “Chet’s not here.” 

“Neither is my respect for Olympians but what else is new?” Carl replies with a sleepy exhale. “I should go to bed before I become one with the couch,” he doesn’t know what time it is but he hasn’t got plans tomorrow so it doesn’t matter. Rick thinks he’s safe with Enid and Ron, not in the hands of a madman, and college doesn’t start until the day after. 

“Best damn idea I’ve heard all day.” Carl doesn’t expect Negan to stand, jostling him from his lap, and scoop him up, strong arms under his knees and back. He would like to have thought that his weight would put up at least a bit of a fight but he’s hauled up seemingly without effort. He wriggles undignifiedly, sniggering a little. 

“Negan…” he says awkwardly into the man’s chest on the way upstairs. The alcohol in his system is making this funnier, and kind of hot, especially the way the man’s muscles flex under him as he narrowly avoids hitting his head on the stair railing. He locks his arms around Negan’s neck for stability, hoping that after everything they’ve survived today, they don’t both get taken out by a rogue doorframe. “I’m tired, but I’m not ‘ _my legs don’t work_ ’ tired…” 

As soon as he says it, he can feel Negan biting back a smartass inuendo response. “So many jokes… I’m just gonna leave it.” Which is a wise choice because Carl is more than a little turned on right now and this situation could quickly become embarrassing if Negan talks about all the ways he could stop Carl’s legs from working. His knees are a little weak as it is. 

Then Negan uses him to push Chet's bedroom door open and the boy is uncomfortably squished against the oak for a second, "oww... if you insist on carrying me, the least you can do is not maim me, right?"

"You're such a damn drama queen."

"Takes one to know one."

Negan really doesn't need to take him all the way over to the bed but he does anyway, knocking into a bookcase on the way.

"My bad, sorry kid," again, he is most definitely not sorry and they both know it.

Carl smiles sweetly up at him, "it's okay daddy, I like it rough." He's only teasing but there's an unmissable flash of something like lust on Negan's face when he says this. He's sporting a faraway smirk as he's about to deposit Carl on Chet's bed, and he shakes his head as if ridding himself of an intrusively naughty thought that he really shouldn't be considering right now.

It's at that moment that Carl thinks back to Negan's flirtation throughout the day and realizes that it might not have been idle. He might actually be interested in Carl...

Negan places Carl on the bed, not quite gently enough to be a smooth landing. When he tries to stand up straight, the boy doesn't relinquish or even loosen his grip. His arms stay locked around Negan's neck like they're attached, singular blue eye looking up at the man in daring silence. If Carl's read this wrong, his brain will remind him of this moment whenever he tries to go to sleep for the next seven years.

Arms braced either side of Carl on the bed, Negan scans his face for a tense second. The boy is so fucking irresistible like this. He's all pretty lips and blue innocence and he looks like he wants Negan to do something about it.

But he's barely legal, still a goddamn teenager, for fuck's sake! This kid is driving him mad. Well, madder. Also, his dad is a cop and if that's not the most poetic shit he's ever heard, he doesn't know what is. And Negan has near enough thirty years on Carl. There are countless reasons why he shouldn't think about the boy in this way, but he does. It's unavoidable, really. How can he let such a sweet young thing go? A sweet young thing who's just as deeply disturbed as he is, and staring up at him with a completely open expression of desire.

The thought that he _really shouldn't_ , shakes hands with the fact that he will anyway. Negan has never had an issue with doing things that aren't necessarily 'right'. Add it to the damn list.

"Fuck it..." he says, more to himself than anyone else, and leans down the rest of the way, immediately assaulting the boy's mouth with a kiss he's clearly ready for. Their lips collide easily and he's met with such eagerness that he falls onto Carl, who doesn't seem to care as long as Negan keeps kissing him.

This isn't Carl's first kiss - and, given his current company, he should count his lucky stars that it won't be his last - but it's definitely his most passionate and involved. His previous kissing experience comes from his friends on nights out (and that one time known as the Halo incident in his mind) and a couple of girlfriends in high school. He and Enid had even tried to make it work before she got back together with Ron - they still laugh about it sometimes if Ron doesn’t get all sulky. 

His body is practically pelting him with rocks and shouting to remind him that he's still a teenager, and all those hormones and fantasies he's repressed for convenience are coming back to haunt him. He's squirming and clumsy under Negan and they both know it's dangerous but there's no stopping now. Their connection is undeniable, like two magnets finally allowed to unite.

Carl's hands bunch in the leather of Negan's jacket, pulling him closer and closer. Negan's narrow hips are between Carl's legs, grinding down on the boy to coax little whimpers from him. His belt digs into Carl’s skin, bordering on painful but it doesn’t matter.

A black leather jacket lands somewhere on the floor. Everything is happening so fast and Carl wants more. He manages to roll them over so he's straddling Negan and continuing their heated kiss from above, holding him down by his broad shoulders. Negan holds him tightly, alternating between his waist and thighs, squeezing just this side of too hard.

Eventually, they have to pull away for oxygen, breathing heavily, "been thinkin' about this all day," Negan confesses in a gruff voice. He's so fucking hot and Carl can't believe they're actually doing this. Negan; this insanely attractive - just insane in general - man in his forties actually wants Carl. Badly, if the hardness pressing against his own through their jeans is anything to go by. He doesn't care that his eye is missing, or that he's screwed up and so flawed that he thinks he shouldn't be allowed in public most days. He doesn't treat Carl like a child or tiptoe around him like he could break at any second. No. He sees Carl for Carl.

"Me too," he smiles genuinely, something he's found himself doing a lot as of late. 

Negan pushes him sideways and slams him back down on the sheets, earning a giggle before he's on Carl again. He's heavy enough to press _oh-so-good_ without being uncomfortable and the boy's scraping at his back to encourage more movement.

Carl's hips come up off the bed, seeking every ounce of friction available, "I barely know you..." he says breathlessly, "is this slutty?"

There's a devilish grin full of lust, "hell fuckin' yeah it is. You're such a little slut and I love it. But look at it this way; I took you across state lines - two of the fuckin' things - got you drunk, made you an accomplice to a great many things Johnny Law isn't so fond of, and now we're making out on the bed of a guy I just killed, so you're really not the questionable one in this scenario." Carl thinks Jared would disagree.

Then Negan is kissing the boy again, tanned hands meeting their pale counterpart under his shirt, burning everywhere he touches.

"Negan..." Carl whispers against his lips, with no specific goal behind the word. It's wandering, aimless and he's so turned on that the man could do just about anything right now and his hard-on wouldn't go away.

"What do you want, baby?" Negan is mouthing at the side of his neck. His tongue, lips and teeth trail across Carl's sensitive skin and his eye flutters shut, dragging in shallow breaths as he tries to formulate a comprehensive answer. This man is doing something devious to his typically sharp brain. 

"I want you to touch me," he mumbles. 

Negan kneels back, grabbing both of Carl's wrists and pinning them above his head with a _puff_ as they impact the pillow. The boy arches his back to avoid it being uncomfortable. Arousal is written all over his face, practically scribbled in rainbow pen across his flushed features. "'I want' doesn't get, now _does_ it, sweetheart?'"

Carl's biting his lip now and Negan can't help but give a long, slow drag of his hips, just to watch his reaction. His brow furrows the tiniest bit and his eye slips shut for a second before it's over. He still doesn't answer though, and Negan presses his wrists further into the pillow, digging his nails in and feeling Carl try to roll his hips up into him. He ignores his own desire to do the same and keeps himself just out of reach. "You better use that pretty mouth, boy," he says right in his ear, "before I use it for you." 

"Please... please touch me," Carl says with growing frustration. The man’s stubble is rubbing against his face as his breath ghosts over Carl's ear. No one has been this rough or dominant with him before and he’s so into it, he just wishes Negan would hurry up. If the man doesn't get him off soon, he's going to implode. 

"Come on, you can do better than that," he's gripped both of Carl's wrists tightly in one hand now, pushing the other up underneath the boy's shirt to caress the pale, untouched expanse of skin there. His thumb circles tantalisingly around Carl's hardened nipple with a feather-light touch, enough to leave him twitching and wanting more. 

The teenager arches into the touch, "oh God... I need your hands on me. I need you so bad, can't stop thinking about you... please Negan." He practically whispers the last part like it's some sort of sinful confession intended for no one but him. "Please touch me." 

Content with the boy's answer, he sits back on his haunches to undo Carl's jeans with a satisfied smirk. "Good boy," he says, just as low and hot as his teenage companion had imagined it would be. To his revel, the boy doesn't move his arms from where he positioned them for a second. So damn obedient. 

Carl's ragged breaths of anticipation deepen when Negan touches his dick through his underwear, lightly pressing, but not enough to give him the gratification he so desperately needs. He's already hard as a rock; he doesn't need teasing. But it's a biproduct of Negan's incessant need to be in control. And he is, because Carl's brain has temporarily stopped working. 

The boy leans up on his elbows, looking up at Negan through his curtain of hair and he's so fucking gorgeous that Negan doesn't want to look away. He's pretty sure he _can't_ look away. Carl whines in frustration, coiled like a spring. Fucking hell, he really does need Negan. "I got you, baby, I got you..." 

When Negan finally wraps his hand around Carl's cock, the teen almost cries out at the intensity, but manages to stay mostly quiet, "holy shit". Negan's hovering over his left side, letting him peck at his lips before deepening the kiss to something more substantial; something filthy and needy and almost as chaotic as the rest of the day. The harshness and magnitude of everything that's happened transfers into their actions. Negan moves his hand so very slowly at first, letting Carl get impatient enough to start jerking his hips up into it. He smirks against his lips when Carl groans, "you're such a dick." 

"And you _love_ it," Negan _finally_ stops playing around and gives him what he needs, pumping his hand and doing everything in his considerable power to make him fall apart. Carl is kissing him super clumsily, vigorously pushing his face up to battle the older man's. His own hands are touring Negan's torso, feeling every toned muscle he has. "Wanna hear you moan, boy, for real this time. Can't get enough of those damn pretty sounds you make," Negan growls against his earlobe. It's so erotic that Carl's hips jump upwards. Negan's mouth is latched onto his neck again and any thoughts of covering it up tomorrow are just that; thoughts of tomorrow. "You're so fuckin' pretty, kid, makin' my head hurt." His accent is even thicker and more slurred like this. 

"Oh fuck..." Carl half-sighs half-moans. The feeling of Negan's hand on his dick is amazing - especially after the manic day they've had - and he's so close to the edge. Negan can't keep his mouth off of Carl; if it isn't on the boy's own, it's sucking and biting at his throat, collarbones, shoulder, marking him beyond disguise. Carl is Negan's and he needs everyone to know. 

Carl's breaths come shallower and shallower, "Negan I'm- I'm gonna-"

"I know, baby, come for me." Negan contemplates dragging it out, making him wait and beg some more, but thinks better of it. It would be criminal to deny him at this point. He's squirming beneath him, so pent-up he could explode at any moment. It's captivating and Negan wouldn't be able to look away even if he wanted to, especially when Carl's sweet little moans get breathier and he comes over Negan's hand. The man strokes him through it, whispering filthy things in his ear that he knows will make the boy blush if he thinks about them later.


	11. Nice Scarf

Carl wakes with a start early the next morning. His brain jolts him awake to save his body from falling into the bottomless pit of his mind. His head aches, but only a little. Most of the alcohol’s effects have been combatted by the deep sleep he enjoyed, as if he weren’t curled up next to a cold-blooded killer with an obvious temper the whole night. Still, they’re both miraculously alive and Carl is thankful. He doesn’t regret anything that happened yesterday. Negan didn’t fuck him, because the author is a tad squeamish, but he’d given him the Negan Masterclass of sucking dick, and the boy's jaw aches a bit now. 

The past two days have been crazy. It’s like he’s in a dream bubble away from his day-to-day life, poised to return to normal on Monday. It’s a blur, a classic tale, really: wake up, eat breakfast, fight ignorance before ten in the morning, get lowkey kidnapped, murder and bury a bunch of bad people in their own backyard, devour some spaghetti, make fun of highly trained and professional athletes, and the rest is history. We’ve all read that one. Maybe it even ends with ‘and they all lived happily ever after’. 

They’d known next to nothing about each other yet defended their marriage of thirty years to a bitter homophobe, and then dealt with the whole debacle in the parking lot. If anything cemented their relationship, it was Carl agreeing to play a part in Negan’s vigilante mission of gore and bloodshed. Granted, he hadn’t known how many people he was going to be putting down, but it makes no difference in the end. He’s glad Chet’s people are gone. Maybe he’s a bit too emotionally invested, given that Negan could easily have fed him false information. But Carl has developed a deep respect for him, bordering on fixation at this point and the day Negan isn't at the forefront of his mind is the day he’s no longer himself. 

The stars aligned just right for Negan to look out of his window at the one-eyed kid in a cowboy hat and think _yeah, I don’t hate the idea of him being in my car._ They even had the same destination and everything! Nothing short of fate could have brought them together. 

Carl guarantees that no one else on that road could have formed the connection with him that he shares with Negan. He thinks back to something the man told him yesterday, “I know your confidence is in your boots but I think you’re a total badass, hot as hell, and anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves with a wrought iron cactus.” He cares enough about Carl’s feelings to say that with enough confidence to actually seem like he means it. 

For the longest time, he believed that the injury to his eye made him unattractive and repellent of human kindness. It was something that dragged him down, rather than becoming an extension of his personality like Negan made it out to be. After all, he kicked Carl’s life’s door down, grabbed his insecurities by the throat and slammed them through a glass wall. This isn’t to say that he’s magically cured of self-doubt, not by a long shot, but this new perspective has opened his remaining eye. 

Blearily, he reaches for his phone on the bedside table. It’s half past seven and he’s got a text from his dad. 

_‘Judith told Michonne she wants a pet unicorn, I’ll let you handle that one, big bro. Lol!’_ – Carl resists the urge to roll his eye as he reads the rest – ‘ _Hope you guys got some good snaps, make sure you’re back by six today, love you. P.S Let me know if you need me to flash my badge at the finance dept so they give you a proper reimbursement!’_

Carl rattles off a reply; things are moving slowly regarding the project but he should be home by the time specified. Rick doesn’t need to know that he’s not with Ron and Enid, working dutifully on their shared college collaboration. If his dad knew that he had in fact spent the weekend doing unspeakably illegal and immoral things with a dangerous stranger, he’d never be allowed outside (his prison cell) again. 

With these pleasant thoughts of lifetime incarceration front and centre in his mind, Carl puts his phone on charge, just in time to hear Negan make an unsatisfied groan beside him. His hair is all ruffled on the pillow and his arm is sleepily wrapping around Carl’s waist, pulling the boy against himself tightly. He’s warm and Carl only struggles a little bit, his hair being assaulted by static electricity from Negan’s shirt. 

Finally convinced that the house sustains no remnants of their stay – not that it matters, the only visitors will be the rest of Chet’s gang, who won’t be able to do a damn thing about their boss’s disappearance – it’s time to leave. Carl and Negan exit together. The boy feels such a sense of purpose by Negan’s side, brushing shoulders (well, skinny shoulder against leather-clad bicep) casually. 

The drive to Negan’s new house is a stone’s throw compared to yesterday’s adventure. It’s near the centre of Atlanta in amongst the hustle and bustle of the capital city. Which, by some miracle of chance, isn’t so far away from Carl’s home. 

“Hey friend. What can I do you for?” says a friendly-looking building manager. She has brightly colored hair and a shiny smile. When Negan explains that he’s here to pick up his new apartment key, she asks his name. 

“I’m Negan _ **[redacted],**_ ” he answers with a grin, and proceeds to list off the required details to prove his identity. Carl waits patiently, slowly wilting under the weight of Negan’s possessions. He’s laden with a table, a couple of duffle bags and an assortment of other things for the apartment. He’d agreed to help him move in, not be his personal Christmas tree. Still, it doesn’t take long until they’re in Negan’s new apartment, breathing in that familiar, unmistakable scent of freshly painted walls and untrodden carpet. 

Carl has always loved new houses. The sense of potential to make it yours draws him in, and the finished product is always as unique as the last. An unfurnished room is an empty canvas with boundless possibilities. It has the capacity to become a detailed mural of colour and passion or an abstract train wreck of uneven tiles and mismatched aesthetic. But no matter how a new place is designed, it’s yours for as long as you decide it is. 

Everything is dumped ungraciously in the centre of what Negan has deemed the living room, leaving the two to explore. Carl feels a little nosy snooping around his friend’s new home but the man doesn’t seem to mind. They’re talking through the walls, the acoustics making them sound further away. 

The baseball bat, having endured a good clean, looks good as new, enjoying pride of place on the mantlepiece in the hallway. Observers would have no idea of its barbaric usage the day before. 

Carl hops onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, fiddling with the pink desk lamp to occupy his hands. He’s once again rewriting the meaning of ‘ugly’ in his mind’s dictionary. The crack in the base of the lamp doesn’t matter because, though it may be unsightly, the bulb is still attached and functional. Just like Carl. And Negan likes them both, no matter how fucked up or damaged. 

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Negan asks, leaning a casual elbow on the island, standing close in front of Carl. 

“I don’t know, can you?” 

“ _I’m_ the teacher here, you can’t use my own joke on me, you little shit,” Negan sniggers and there’s a short pause before he poses his thoughts, “I want to ask; do you feel safe? Like, with me?” 

It’s so open-ended and Carl has trouble locating an instant answer. His gut tells him he should have had less faith in Negan’s intentions in the beginning but it’s turned out alright. “I… yeah, I feel safe with you.” It’s not a lie, either. Against his better judgement, he really does trust Negan with his life. 

Negan seems taken aback by that, “really? After everything…? I hurled you into some pretty crazy shit this weekend-” 

“I mean, if you’d asked me in the parking lot, I would have tried to strangle you with my bandage, but it’s different now. We’re on the same page. I’m fine with what happened, you’re fine with what happened. We’re good. You had my back when Mousta- Simon attacked me, and we’ve committed a _heinous_ amount of crimes together, so yeah. I feel safe.” He pauses and sighs as the level of childish naivety he’s displayed sinks in, “which, hearing it out loud, I sound stupid as fuck to trust you, but I do. Also, if that’s not enough, I fell asleep on you, _twice_.” 

Negan listens to his little rant intently and gives a snort of laughter at the end, “that could just mean I’m boring as hell or you’re one narcoleptic son of a bitch,” he teases. If there’s one thing this man is not; it’s boring. “Man, we really were strained in the same goddamn sieve. We kill a whole squad of circle-jerkers and you don’t even bat your eyelid.” 

The boy shrugs, unconcerned, “they deserved it.” 

“Yeah,” Negan nods contemplatively, “yeah they did. You know, I get the feelin’ your daddy never taught you about stranger danger.” 

Carl sits up straight on the barstool, aiming for threatening and missing, “maybe _I’m_ the danger,” he dares. 

“Kid, I don’t doubt that for one fucking nanosecond,” Negan has slowly crept forward throughout the duration of the conversation, and his hand is on Carl’s thigh, the other pulling the bar stool around so Carl’s facing him, “I like danger.” He bends his neck to brush their lips together lightly, making the boy go pliant in an instant. “Makes me feel alive.” 

Carl leans up to return the kiss with much less dexterity, hands immediately coming up to pull Negan closer. The butterflies come back in full force, fluttering around his stomach. Negan cups the back of his neck to tilt his head at a better angle, but when Carl tries to take it further, there’s a regretful noise from the older man. He pulls back reluctantly, “I wish I could stay with you, kid, but I gotta drive up back up North to babysit the moving company workers I hired.” The distance between them feels like a marathon. “They’ve got a real hard-on for punctuality; wouldn’t want to blue balls the fuckers.”


	12. Finale

As promised, Negan drops Carl off a couple of streets away from his house, for fear of Rick spotting his dear son with the likes of Negan. He pulls up to the curb of a vacant stretch of road and leaves the engine on as he turns to Carl in the passenger seat. “We’re past the stage where I have to threaten you into secrecy and unconditional silence, right? I don’t have to tell you to sleep with one eye ope- well. You get it. Right?” 

Carl sends him a glare which softens almost immediately when they make eye contact, “do I look like a fucking idiot?” 

“You _look_ like you haven’t slept since Michael Jackson’s last concert,” Negan says kindly, and it’s true. He feels like it too. “and while I don’t hate the idea of you in handcuffs, the last thing either of us need is to be locked up. So, to everyone else, your trip got cut short, I picked up a hitchhiker and brought him back to King County. Nothing else happened. I’ll call you when I move in; should be Tuesday if all goes to plan.“ 

Carl nods. It’s melancholy, exiting the vehicle, but at least he knows Negan will return soon. They say a reserved goodbye under the watchful eyes of the neighborhood – this guy is just dropping his kid’s friend off, nothing to see here, nothing whatsoever – and just before Negan is ready to drive away, he throws his scarf at Carl’s face. 

“You’re gonna want to put that on,” he grins mysteriously and winks at him before driving off, leaving Carl on the sidewalk to ponder what that means. It’s only when the SUV is out of sight that he remembers the bruises on his throat from the night before. An instant blush arises and he hastily winds the garment around his neck. 

He realizes he must look like a clown with his collar swathed in red material in the searing heat but it’s the best he can do for now. Maybe when he’s home he can find something more suitable and equally concealing to put on. 

As soon as he gets through the door, Rick is there. “Hey dad.”

“Nice scarf,” Rick lies through a friendly grin. He very obviously hates it and Carl inwardly laughs at his father’s lack of tact (at least he’s trying), “how was the trip?” 

“Oh, you know,” – there’s no way he could _possibly_ know – “it was great, uneventful but great. Enid and I got a bunch of good photos in the buildings, Ron mainly focused on the outside, and we finished the project. Other than that, nothing really happened.”

He digs through his backpack as his dad describes the harrowing ordeal that was getting Judith to sleep after she got wind of the fact that unicorns aren’t real. “You should have seen the look on your sister’s face. Honestly, I feel so guilty, I may never sleep again,” Rick chuckle-winces. Carl dreads the day Judith finds out about Santa. No amount of soft serve ice-cream will ever break the fall of that news. Good luck, Rick, God knows you’re going to need it. 

“This’ll make her feel better,” Carl grins, pulling out the little cop keyring he bought. Thankfully, no blood had found its way onto it and after everything that’s happened, it’s surprising he even remembered. 

Rick’s grin gleams on his worn-out face at the item. He’s predictable, and so is Judith. Carl is sure she’ll like it too when she wakes up from her nap. In fact, he might join her in sleeping for, like, seventy hours. 

So, after a weekend of events that should probably have never happened, Carl asks himself if he wishes that were the case. Does he wish someone else had picked him up off the side of that busy road? No. Does he wish he’d responded with more grace or caution when he found the weaponry in Negan’s car? Given the circumstance, he’s willing to give himself some leeway with that one. Does he wish he hadn’t helped the man commit fully-fledged mass murder? Shockingly, the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. 

Does he wish he never met Negan? Hell fucking no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes this rather wordy tale. Feedback is always appreciated; tell me if it's good, yell at me if you hate it. If you got this far, you're the best, thanks so much for reading!!


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